


Hurts Like Hell

by onymousann



Series: ocean eyes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Mask-fic, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Stucky AU Big Bang 2018, The mask never came off, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onymousann/pseuds/onymousann
Summary: Steve falls from the Helicarrier only to wake up, severely injured, to the realization that the Winter Soldier has absconded him away to an abandoned Hydra facility. He doesn’t know why the Soldier rescued him from the Potomac, or why his masked captor treats him as anything but a captive, as he undertakes the task of nursing Steve back to health. He also doesn’t know why certain things the Soldier does resurrect echoes of a man long-dead. Echoes that make Steve’s heart ache with grief.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Long time on see! Hope you're ready for a wild ride. \ (•◡•) / Buckle in and brace yourselves, this one gets dark. But take comfort in the fact that there is a light....way, way, WAY, in the distance! I promise a happy ending for these two. 
> 
> Remember that, and enjoy! (~˘▾˘)~
> 
> ♥ As always, I cannot thank my amazing Beta NurseDarry ENOUGH! For being so helpful, encouraging, and great for making me laugh, THANK YOU NurseDarry for all of your contributions and support! ♥ 
> 
> Last but definitely not least, I would like to thank my collaborative partner for this Bang, @mrs---nicole (aka mom---nicole), for creating some wonderful media for this fic! Go check it out here: 
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/user-26314425/sets/buckys-thoughts 
> 
> http://mom---nicole.tumblr.com/post/183360470793/for-onymousann-s-fic-ocean-eyes-its-such-a
> 
> -onymousann
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> This story deals with how the Winter Soldier was created and kept compliant. Some of the trauma/abuse the Winter Soldier was subjected to may be disturbing to read.

_‘How can I say this without breaking?_

_How can I say this without taking over?_

_How can I put it down into words_

_When it’s almost too much for my soul alone?_

 

_I loved, and I loved, and I lost you._

_I loved, and I loved, and I lost you._

_I loved, and I loved, and I lost you._

 

_And it hurts like hell.'_

 

* * *

 

 

✪ **Prologue** ✪

 

 

The cry doesn’t reach Steve gradually.  
  
Doesn’t wash over him in a gentle wave.  
  
It slams into him, silent, but visceral. A blow as solid as the force of his shield, hurled back at him from across the rooftop on that late spring evening.  
  
From the dark depths of the Winter Soldier’s eyes, the cry emanates, and the memory of that gaze — desolate, haunted, brilliantly blue above the black shadows of the mask — stays with Steve for a long time.  
  
Those eyes ghost through his dreams.

They speak:  a voiceless, enigmatic plea left unheeded.

 

__

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

✪ **Ch. 1** ✪

 

Steve rises gradually from the clutches of a dreamless sleep.   
  
His ears pick up faint echoes of sound which reverberate through the air in a manner characteristic of large, indoor spaces.   
  
Beyond the echoing sounds, the world is unnaturally quiet. There is no rushing noise of traffic, no chattering of birds, nor the faint sweeping rush of wind through leaves.   
  
The utter lack of any exterior sound indicates one of two possibilities: either very good sound-proofing, or that Steve is located somewhere underground.   
  
He drags his eyes open.   
  
From the flat of his back, he stares hazily up at the array of uncovered piping running along the ceiling.   
  
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t recognize his surroundings.   
  
The realization is alarming, in a distant sort of way, floating just beyond his reach.   
  
It’s there, but muffled beneath the more immediate, painful sensations stemming from broken ribs, multiple gunshot wounds, and a severely pounding headache.   
  
_‘Okay_ ,’ he tells himself. _‘Okay_. _First rule of being abducted: Stay calm._ ’  
  
He draws in a shallow breath, careful of his ribs, and silently reviews the next guideline on his mental ‘ _So, you’ve been kidnapped_ ,’ list.  
  
‘ _Be observant. Take in your surroundings. Identify possible escape routes_.’  
  
He tilts his head slightly to the left, notes distantly that he’s lying on something like a cot, and subsequently gets his first good look at the place where he’s ended up.   
  
He’s definitely underground, in a building which looks to be an industrial warehouse of some sort.

The large space appears to have been gutted, then sparsely refurbished toward a specific purpose — a purpose Steve cannot even begin to guess at as he takes in the bizarre characteristics of the place.   
  
Far on the other side of the wide room stands an assortment of computers. Near the computers are situated various bits of medical equipment and an industrial-grade lighting system, all of which  surround a metal, chair-like contraption.   
  
The ‘chair’ possesses a formidable set of heavy-duty manacles, and Steve can’t help but wonder why, if he’s being held captive, he didn’t wake up strapped into _that_ thing.   
  
The ‘warehouse’ is dotted here and there with sturdy, dark-colored crates which could contain anything from additional medical equipment to weaponry.   
  
Nearer to where Steve lies, but still at least halfway across the room, an unidentifiable metal cylinder stands with its door ajar. The cylinder is large enough that Steve could potentially fit inside, albeit snugly. Its door has a small window set at about the height of a man’s face.   
  
The cylinder itself is connected to an array of smaller tubes, which run to a number of what look like large, pressure-vessel tanks — the kind of which typically hold vaporous gases.  
  
Steve shudders to think what the cylinder might be used for.   
  
Adjacent to the cylinder has been fabricated an open, tiled area, its center inset with a rusty drain. A thick hose is connected to a spigot protruding from the wall and hangs, dripping, just above it, looped around a hook.   
  
The ‘warehouse’ in its entirety, exudes a foreboding air, and Steve cannot help but feel he’d have been better off keeping his eyes shut.   
  
There is one silver lining: the doors which presumably lead to an exit — though outfitted with heavy chains and made of what appears to be a thick, metal alloy — do not appear to be locked.   
  
Which is yet another baffling detail to add to the small list that’s been compiling in Steve’s head.   
  
If he has indeed been captured, as he’d initially believed, why would the doors be left unlocked?   
  
He’s injured, there’s no doubt, and it would be difficult to escape in his current state, but even so, shouldn’t he, at the very least, be _restrained_ in some way?  
  
His confused musings are abruptly cut short when Steve senses movement nearby. Quite suddenly, he realizes that what he’d assumed was a shadow in his peripheral vision is, in fact, _alive_.   
  
The shadow shifts minutely, and Steve jerks his head around, hissing in pain as the sharp movement jostles his injuries.

Black spots dance across his vision, and then, slowly, his sight clears. 

The Winter Soldier stares back at him, ocean-eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the vicinity of Steve’s left earlobe.   
  
From the looks of it, the Soldier has been sitting there for a while. There are a number of protein bars, unopened, a crate of water bottles, also unopened, and a set of clips — likely for the purpose of reloading the SIG Sauer clutched loosely in his metal hand — all stacked beside him.   
  
The gun is not being pointed toward Steve, a fact for which the super-soldier is extremely grateful considering that his torso is already sporting several excruciatingly painful bullet holes from his last altercation with the Soldier.     
  
Strangely, it almost looks like… It appears as if the Soldier is _guarding Steve_.   
  
Steve searches the Soldier’s face — what he can see of it above the mask — but his expression remains inscrutably blank, and Steve cannot guess at his motives.   
  
The last thing Steve can remember before falling unconscious some time after hitting the water, is the shadowy glint of the metal arm reaching for him within the depths of the Potomac river.   
  
Obviously the Soldier had pulled him out.   
  
The question is _why_? And _where_ exactly had he brought him?   
  
The warehouse, despite the vast amounts of equipment scattered throughout, seems to be abandoned — though there’s no way to know for sure without asking.

Steve has the disturbing suspicion that the place had formerly been used as one Hydra’s multiple bases of operations.   
  
So had the Soldier been trying to deliver Steve to Hydra? Or had he simply been attempting to bring Steve to someplace familiar?   
  
“Where—“ Steve begins, in an attempt to get some answers.   
  
Before he can get past the barest beginnings of the syllable, however, the rest of the question gets stuck in his parched throat.   
  
He coughs, grimacing as the movement jars his ribs, reawakening pain that had only just started to fade to the back of his awareness.   
  
Black spots scatter once more throughout his vision, but he is just able to make out the shape of a water bottle being thrust in front of his face.   
  
Steve takes the bottle without hesitation, twisting off the cap and gulping down its contents in a matter of seconds. A second bottle appears just as he’s finished the first, and it too is gulped down in similar fashion.   
  
When he’s through, Steve crushes the empty bottles, tossing them aside, and sinks back onto the cot beneath him, closing his eyes against the pain echoing through his body.   
  
He takes a moment to breathe, searching for an equilibrium somewhere between pain and posture.   
  
When Steve eventually reopens his eyes, he finds, to his surprise, that the Soldier has relocated. His new positioning better places him within Steve’s range of vision, such that Steve no longer has to twist around to see him, has only to shift the direction of his gaze.   
  
The action is surprisingly considerate, and Steve is struck by the unbelievable impression that the Soldier does not mean him any harm.   
  
Still, it won’t hurt to ask:   
  
“Where are we?”   
  
The Soldier shifts in what appears to be discomfort, his gaze darting rapidly around the room, and Steve has a dawning realization that perhaps the Soldier is not used to _speaking_.   
  
That what Steve had assumed was simply a mask, a piece of equipment worn only for the purpose of concealing his identity, in fact provides the additional function of a gag — a _muzzle_.   
  
The Soldier’s been completely silent up to this point. In fact, beyond the occasional quiet grunt during combat and the involuntary muffled cry of pain when Steve had dislocated his shoulder on the Helicarrier, he’s never even heard the Soldier’s voice.   
  
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Steve tries again.   
  
“Did you bring me here?”   
  
The Soldier seems relieved to have a question he can answer non-verbally, and tilts his head in the smallest of nods.   
  
“Are you—“ Steve licks his lips. “Am I a prisoner? Are you delivering me to Hydra?” The lack of bindings suggest otherwise, but Steve needs to be sure.   
  
The Soldier jerks his head sharply in the negative, and Steve releases a small sigh of relief.   
  
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”   
  
The Soldier’s attention — despite his lack of direct eye-contact — remains intently fixed on Steve, as if he is waiting for more questions.   
  
“You pulled me from the river.”   
  
The Soldier tilts his head again in affirmation, though it wasn’t actually a question.   
  
“Thank you,” Steve says, sincerely.   
  
The Soldier doesn’t react in any visible way to the expression of gratitude. He simply sits, quietly attentive, as if Steve hadn’t spoken the words at all.   
  
Steve pushes the peculiarity of the Soldier’s lack of response to the back of his mind to be examined later as he feels his eyelids growing heavier. Exhaustion sweeps suddenly through his limbs and he slurs out one last question,

“We’re...safe here?”   
  
The Soldier’s metal arm recalibrates with a low whine, and he dips his chin in a single, decisive nod.   
  
The threat inherent in the Soldier’s response should, perhaps, cause Steve some alarm.   
  
Impossibly, Steve finds it only reassuring as he surrenders himself to a deep, healing sleep.   


 

  
— 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

✪ **Ch. 2** ✪

 

 

When Steve next wakes, he’s absolutely _starving._

He can tell that his body had expended a substantial amount of energy healing itself while he‘d been asleep. 

Fortunately, his ribs feel significantly less painful, though they are definitely still tender, he notes; at least cracked, if no longer broken.  
  
He shifts gently, trying to determine the extent of the damage that still needs healing.  
  
The bullet wounds seem to have closed up somewhat, and he no longer feels like his head is going to explode, but an attempt to sit up fully leaves him flat on his back, panting in agony.  
  
So. Still some considerable internal damage, then.  
  
Steve wonders how long he’d been under.  
  
It’s impossible to be sure — the industrial lighting remains an unvarying constant, and as vast as the room is, it has no windows.  
  
Both factors add credence to Steve’s suspicion that this warehouse-like space is located underground.  
  
The Soldier is nowhere to be seen when Steve takes a careful look around, noticing, where he hadn’t before, that there are a few other cot-like beds scattered near the one on which he currently rests.  
  
There are also a couple more rooms behind him, which he hadn’t accounted for prior to passing out however-many hours ago.  
  
One of the rooms looks like a rudimentary kitchen with a refrigerator and a sink. Steve can’t tell from his current angle whether or not there is any sort of stove or heating appliances.  
  
The other room contains a toilet and what appears to be a stall of showers, both of which can just barely be seen through the half-open doorway.  
  
His visual tour is abruptly cut off when he realizes that the Soldier has returned from wherever it is he’d gone.  
  
The masked assassin is so light on his feet that even Steve’s enhanced hearing doesn’t alert him to the Soldier’s approach until he is nearly upon him.  
  
Steve startles, swearing under his breath, as the jarring movement causes pain to arc through his body, and the Soldier takes a quick step backward before abruptly freezing in place. Blue eyes dart around nervously, and Steve suddenly has the ridiculously irrational urge to _reassure_ his own captor.  
  
The descriptor seems unduly harsh somehow, when applied to the assassin standing before him, looking for all the world like _he’s_ afraid — as if _Steve_ is going to hurt _him_ — and Steve can’t help his instinctive urge to assuage the Soldier.  
  
“Sorry,” he rasps, feeling like the world has turned upside-down as he _apologizes_ to the world’s most formidable assassin. “You startled me. Didn’t hear you walk up.”  
  
The Soldier watches Steve for a long moment, completely immobile.

Or rather, he watches Steve’s collarbone. 

He still hasn’t actually made eye-contact, and all at once, Steve is hit with the unsettling suspicion that the Soldier is _not okay_. That something is _wrong_ with him.  
  
It’s unmistakable now, Steve realizes, as he watches the Soldier acting as if he himself is the captive.  
  
As if _Steve_ is the dangerous person in this situation.  
  
“Are...are you okay?” Steve asks nonsensically, completely at a loss.  
  
How did one go about reassuring their own abductor?  
  
The Soldier snaps out of the motionless state he’d frozen in, and slowly he raises the small duffel bag he’s carrying, as if in offering.  
  
The dark canvas bag has a crude white cross painted across the fabric.  
  
Deciding to ignore the fact that he’s apparently in an alternate universe where his captor _takes care of him_ instead of hurting him — while at the same time being the one who’s _actually_ afraid — Steve offers the Soldier a tiny smile.  
  
“Hey, thanks. You gonna help patch me up, buddy?”  
  
The Soldier twitches almost imperceptibly at the word ‘buddy’, but then he dips his head in a small nod.  
  
He takes a tiny step forward, darting a quick glance over Steve’s features, as if he’s...checking that he’s allowed to approach?  
  
Steve keeps the small smile in place, and the expression seems to reassure the Soldier to some degree because he finally closes the distance between himself and Steve’s cot.  
  
He drops to his knees once he’s within arms’ reach, and gently places the duffel by his side.  
  
In this position, the Soldier is nearly face-to-face with Steve on his cot, which is raised off of the ground by a couple of feet.  
  
This close, Steve is able to make out some of the finer details of the Soldier’s face, can hear his quiet breathing behind the mask, and smell the odor of the Potomac that’s sunk into his tactical gear, apparently unchanged since he’d rescued Steve from the river.  
  
The scent of the Potomac undoubtedly clings to Steve as well, since he’s still in the tattered remains of his Captain America suit, and Steve yearns, suddenly, for the cleansing warmth of a shower.    
  
With his injuries, there’s no way he’d be able to manage one at this point, but he might be able enough tomorrow or perhaps the next day, when he’s had more time to heal.  
  
And speaking of healing...  
  
The Soldier reaches cautiously for the front of Steve’s suit, brow furrowing when he fails to locate any clasps or zippers by which to open it.  
  
“Gonna have to cut it off, I think,” Steve says to the Soldier’s unasked question.  
  
In response, the Soldier reaches into the duffle, pulling out a pair of industrial scissors. Again, he hesitates, uncertain.  
  
For the first time, his eyes catch Steve’s, holding for the barest fraction of a moment before he drops his gaze again.  
  
Steve is struck again by how _very_ _blue_ those eyes are. The color is unique; Steve’s only ever seen it once before, and the memory of _where_ he’s seen it makes him ache in a way that has nothing to do with his physical injuries.

The feeling takes his breath away for just a moment, in that singular instant before the color gets swept behind a fringe of long, dark lashes. 

The Soldier‘s unease is nearly tangible, and Steve perceives it faintly as he works to shake off the memories of a ghost.  
  
Slowly, the Soldier offers the scissors to Steve, fingers shifting nervously around the sharp point of the metal tool.  
  
“I think. It would be easier, if you do it,” Steve says, haltingly.  
  
Puzzlement takes over heartache as he refocuses on the Soldier, unsure at the cause of the assassin’s sudden increase in anxiety.  
  
Does he think Steve is going to grab the scissors and _stab_ him?  
  
The Soldier still doesn’t move the scissors any closer to Steve’s person, and Steve takes a shot in the dark.  
  
“It’s okay. I trust you,” he says, and knows he’s hit the metaphorical nail on the head when the Soldier’s averted eyes widen in response.  
  
The Soldier takes a shaky breath.  
  
Finally, he turns the scissors around in his hand and cuts diligently through the fabric covering Steve’s abused torso.  
  
The scissors disappear into the bag immediately afterward, and the Soldier gazes over the bruised and battered expanse of Steve’s chest and abdomen, brow furrowed in what could — on another person, someone who hadn’t been the _cause_ of such injuries— be dismay.

The Soldier reaches out, metal hand hovering unsteadily over Steve’s upper body, as if he’s not sure where to begin, before he releases another slow breath behind that mask. 

He reaches back into the duffel, pulling out a soft cotton cloth and then shuffles over to grab a couple of water bottles from the nearby stack.  
  
After using his knees to hold the first bottle in place and his metal hand to twist off the cap, the Soldier dampens the rag and then begins to systematically clean Steve’s torso, wiping him down with measured, surprisingly gentle, strokes.  
  
For a moment, Steve’s disquieted brain imposes the image of _Bucky_ over the Soldier as he remembers the countless times his best friend had done the same for him.  
  
Before the war, when it was just the two of them sharing a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky had been the one to assist Steve with gentle wipe-downs during the many times when debilitating bouts of sickness had left Steve bedridden, unable to bathe himself. And then there were the numerous wounds he’d sustained from all the scraps he’d gotten into on a near-weekly basis. Bucky had always been there to help bandage him up when Steve’d needed it.  
  
Now, as Steve sinks again into the memories, the Soldier’s movements seem to reflect Bucky’s steady care. His hand takes the same efficient paths Bucky’s had when sponging him down. His touch is just as gentle. And as the Soldier bandages each wound, Steve can’t help but to think that the motions seem to be intrinsic to him.

The assassin is suddenly sure in his movements. He works with confidence, no longer second-guessing each decisive action. 

When the Soldier finishes attending to Steve’s injuries, he pats Steve twice on a bare shoulder — a silent indicator that he has finished — and Steve sucks in a sharp breath.  
  
Because that’s _Bucky’s_ move. How Bucky’d always indicated that he was finished with the task of cleaning or bandaging Steve up after a fight.  
  
But, more than just saying he was finished, it had been _reassurance_ .  
  
Even when Bucky was spitting mad, furious at Steve for getting into another fight he had no chance of winning, he’d pat Steve on the shoulder. As if to say, even in the midst of wanting to throttle Steve himself, ‘ _I’m glad you’re okay_ ’, and ‘ _I’m still with you. ‘Till the end of the line’_.  
  
“ _Bucky_?” Steve breathes, peering up at the Soldier, reaching out to grasp the metal hand as it retreats.  
  
The Soldier twitches, the tiniest of flinches, and it’s as if a bucket of ice water has been dumped over Steve’s head.  
  
Because _of course_ the Soldier isn’t _Bucky_. Bucky’s _dead_. Steve had watched him fall.  
  
“Sorry.” Steve drops his hand, swallowing back his grief. “I’m sorry. I don’t— don’t know why I said that.”  
  
The Soldier doesn’t respond, only resumes packing away the medical supplies.  
  
Steve takes the quiet moment to pull himself together. Then, determined to separate the Soldier from Bucky as clearly as possible he asks,  
  
“What is your name?”  
  
The Soldier halts, flicking his gaze up to latch onto Steve’s collarbone.  
  
“I just... I don’t want to keep calling you ‘Soldier”, even if it’s only in my head,” Steve explains. “I know you aren’t speaking, but...maybe you could write it down? I’m Steve, by the way — in case you didn’t know. Steve Rogers.”  
  
Steve shuts his mouth before he can continue babbling nonsensically, and the Soldier gets the smallest of furrows between his brows.  
  
He stares down at his mismatched hands for a long moment, unmoving.

Eventually, he stands, and heads over toward the scattered equipment on the other side of the warehouse. There is a small filing cabinet near the nightmarishly horrific-looking ‘chair’, and the Soldier opens the top drawer, pulls out a folder. 

When he comes back, he lowers himself once more to the floor beside the cot. Gingerly he holds the file out for Steve to take.

The folder’s cover — entitled and handwritten in Russian —  looks rather benign.

Steve has been learning bits of the language from Natasha and is thus able to read the largest word on the center cover: ДЕЛО. _Case_. Case _seventeen_ if the subsequent numbering is to be believed.

The bottom corner is dated March of 1945, which is undeniably strange given that presumably, the file has something to do with the Soldier sitting in front of him.

Steve knows that the Soldier is enhanced — had, in all likelihood, been given some bastardized version of the same serum that Steve has running through his own veins.

But there is no way that the Soldier is as old as Steve himself.

It isn’t _possible_. Steve was frozen for nearly seventy _years._ The Soldier doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

A more likely explanation is that the folder contains some information regarding Hydra’s attempts at re-creating the serum — which actually _had_ been taking place during Steve’s era, and could reasonably be included in a folder concerning the Winter Soldier, who had received a version of it — albeit further down the line.

Steve mentally files away the plausible explanation and continues to peruse the front cover.

Beneath the title is a small, hand-written description, the first two words of which Steve can easily translate: Зимний Солдат. _Winter Soldier_.

He picks out a few other words he can translate from the description.

Военный рекорд. _Military record_.

Обслуживанию. _Maintenance_.  

Экспериментированию. _Experimentation_.

A feeling of unease begins to churn in Steve’s stomach.

He flips open the cover.

 

—

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH what's Steve gonna find next?! ◉_◉
> 
> Comments bring me joy and happiness!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer Reiteration:
> 
> This story deals with how the Winter Soldier was created and kept compliant. Some of the trauma/abuse the Winter Soldier was subjected to may be disturbing to read.
> 
> \--
> 
> Some of the scenes described in this chapter were inspired by a tumblr post featuring @paperflower86's rendition of the Winter Soldier's Hydra file. It's really well done. I highly recommend checking it out. 
> 
> Link here: http://paperflower86.tumblr.com/post/88873041910/be-careful-steve-you-might-not-want-to-pull-on

 

 

✪ **Ch. 3** ✪

 

 

The contents of the Russian-scripted folder, when Steve looks inside, turn out to be anything _but_ benign.   
  
Paperclipped to the inside cover and, consequently, the first thing Steve sees, is an enlarged, close-up headshot of the Soldier, tinged icy-blue and enclosed inside what looks like a cylindrical chamber that’s been _frozen_.

The Soldier is being viewed from outside the small window inset within the chamber’s door, a chamber which looks eerily similar to the one that rests on the far side of the warehouse Steve’s been residing in for the last day or so.

The frost covering the inside of the chamber’s small window makes it impossible to make out any more of the Soldier’s features beyond what Steve has already seen above the mask, but Steve _can_ see that his eyes are closed as if he is asleep, his dark lashes dusted in a fine covering of frost.

The implications are clear: The medical equipment within this place, the cryotube chamber, the ‘ _chair’_ — all of these things are here for, and have been used _on_ , the Soldier for one reason or another. 

Steve shivers uncomfortably, remembering with serum-enhanced, excruciating detail, the trauma of being frozen. Of realizing that he was going to die slowly, as his extremities first began to lose feeling, eventually growing too cold for his muscles to work anymore.

His heart rate, which, at first, had increased in his body’s futile attempt to keep him warm, had slowed and his skin began to burn with an artificial, paradoxical sensation of heat. Eventually, as his organs had begun to shut down, he'd lost consciousness.   

It is likely that the Soldier’s experience with being frozen is nothing like what Steve had undergone.

Steve’s heard of cryofreeze in the time since he’d been revived. Has even researched it during particularly sleepless nights when memories of his resurrection had grown particularly brutal.

He’s never heard of any successful attempts — likely due to the small fact of it being _illegal_ —  but the idea behind the process is that the freezing is done very quickly, almost instantly.

Obviously, Hydra had found a way to make it work, legalities aside.

Steve can’t imagine what it would be like to experience being frozen repeatedly. ( _It had to have been repeatedly,_ he thinks, because as similar as the tube in the photograph looks to the one in the warehouse, there are still distinct differences between the two.)  

The process of becoming _unfrozen,_ though? Steve doesn’t think there’s any way to accomplish _that_ quickly. It’d have to be severely painful, probably much like what Steve had experienced when freezing to death — only in reverse.

Who would volunteer for such a thing?

The word _‘experimentation’_ floats through his brain. _Had_ the Soldier actually volunteered?

There’s no way to know for sure at this point, but the possibility that the Soldier _might not have_ is horrifying. Steve can’t help thinking about the fact that Hydra had the Soldier _muzzled_ into silence, and that apart from his handlers, the Soldier has been nothing less than accommodative, and — contrary to Steve’s expectation — completely non-violent.

 _‘Nothing can be proven right now_ ,’ Steve tells himself as he turns his attention to the next page. ‘ _I can’t translate all of this without Natasha’s help, and the Soldier isn’t talking. Just find his name._ That’s _what you’re looking for, remember?’_

Like the cover, the page adjacent to the unsettling photograph is written entirely in Russian. It looks to be some sort of [ letter ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c3/a0/26/c3a026771a50f6c7dd425df81c7409db.jpg) from the KGB, and Steve flips to the next page. The KGB was disbanded over ten years ago. There is little chance of the letter having anything to do with the Soldier.

Steve glances over the lines of text on the next page containing the words Зимний Солдат, searching for an identification for the Soldier, but there is nothing. The words солдат, теме, актива — _soldier_ , _subject_ , _asset_ —  show up repeatedly, but not a name, no identity.

He must be missing something. His grasp of the Russian language is shaky, so it must be that he’s simply overlooking the Soldier’s identification.  
  
Steve turns to the Soldier. “Can you read this?” he asks, tilting the folder, indicating the Russian script. The Soldier glances at the page, inclining his head in a small nod.

“Great,” Steve says. It’s not surprising that the Soldier would understand Russian. His metal arm _is,_ after all _,_ adorned with the Soviet star commonly used by the Russian military. Perhaps that is where Hydra recruited him. “I’m not so great with Russian. Could you — ah. Do you see your name on here?”

The Soldier nods again, and Steve holds the folder out toward the assassin. “I think I’m missing it,” he says. “Point it out for me, would you?”

This time, the Soldier hesitates. Carefully, as if to avoid spooking Steve, he extends a metal finger, placing it gently beneath a Cyrillic word. “Солдат” it says. _Soldier._ The Soldier slides the finger across the page to rest beneath another word —  “Актива”, _Asset_ — before he pulls his hand away.

“Soldat…?” Steve reads aloud, confused. Because the words the Soldier had pointed to are not names.

They’re _titles_.

Detached and utilitarian. Severed from all form of identity and whatever sense of individuality a name would afford.

But the Soldier straightens when Steve reads the word aloud, actually _responding_ to it, as if he _has_ been called by name, and Steve feels as sharp bolt of anger rip through his chest.

Because —  Hydra or not —  stripping a man of identity is a terrible cruelty. And it’s getting harder and harder to believe that this man, _any_ man, would choose the sort of existence the file is revealing the Soldier to have experienced.     

Steve flips the page.

He comes across a diagram of the bionic arm, detailing where skin had been grafted over the metal plating, leaving behind extensive scarring. From the looks of it, many of the bones in the Soldier’s torso have been replaced with metal equivalents, just to keep the weight of the prosthetic from ripping itself from his body.

There is a photograph beneath the diagram of the masked Soldier staring dead-eyed into the distance as a Hydra technician works on the arm, metal plating removed to show a glimpse into the prosthetic’s inner workings. That the expression appears to be the Soldier’s default doesn’t make the photograph any less unsettling.

Here and there, are hand-written notes, scribbled in English along the margins of certain pages. ‘ _The subject must be made aware of who is ultimately in control,’_ reads one. Beside it, a small, crinkled black-and-white photograph of the Soldier crouched naked in a barred cell is clipped to the page. His face is turned away from the source of the photograph and though his hands grip at the bars plaintively, his head is tilted downward, indicating that he has no hope of being acknowledged by whoever exists outside his cage.

 _‘Once the subject recognizes that those providing succor are in complete control,’_ the passage continues, _‘he will come to accept that the only food, praise, and social contact he will receive will come from that source, and he will continue to look to that source for relief, even if that relief comes with pain.’_

Steve’s stomach roils with nausea. Methods of _brainwashing_. That’s what the passages are describing. Hydra-brand torture and manipulation leading to absolute control over a victim.

 _‘Control of communication is one of the more effective methods of creating a sense of helplessness and dependency in an individual,’_ reads another hand-written passage.

The Soldier sits passively beside the cot, unaware of — or more likely _unconcerned_ _with_ —  the information being revealed to Steve as he steadily flips through the Hydra file.

He’d brought the file to Steve readily, hadn’t even needed prompting. In all probability, the Soldier doesn’t see anything _wrong_ with what’s been done to him — a common disposition in victims of brainwashing.

Steve knows that oftentimes,  such victims have a difficult time thinking or speaking in concepts apart from those they have adopted from their captors.

If the Soldier had been taught that the experiences he’d undergone with Hydra were _normal,_ there’s no reason for him to attempt to keep them from Steve.

A horrific thought swims into Steve’s consciousness: that the Soldier may be expecting Steve to _continue_ treating him in the same manner as Hydra. It could explain why the Soldier is so wary of him. Why he seems to be working to provide assistance to Steve, to be _helpful._

And then.

And then Steve turns the page to reveal a photograph and subsequent description of “the Asset’s _”_ routine _“_ maintenance procedures”.

The image is a grainy, black-and-white picture that looks like it came directly from a security camera. It is, though,  undeniably the Soldier. His long hair covers much of his features, and the poor quality of the picture makes it impossible to identify exactly what he looks like, even though the mask has been removed.

But there’s no question that he’s restrained, strapped into a chair similar in appearance to the Chair From Hell that sits on the other side of the Hydra facility that Steve is now without a doubt   _certain_ he’s been staying in.

The Soldier’s hands grip tightly at the armrests of the chair and there is something in his mouth which Steve identifies, after an intense moment of close scrutiny, as a _bite guard_.

A metallic-looking ring hovers above the Soldier’s head, connected to a similarly metallic-looking plate that rests against half of the Soldier’s face, and Steve doesn’t need to know what it is _for_ for it to send a chill down his spine. The Soldier’s expression is creased with agony, the tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief, his mouth open around the guard clenched in his teeth as if he is screaming.

Steve swallows repeatedly, feeling sick and shaky, and shuts the folder, not even halfway through its contents.

His suspicion that the Soldier is a _victim_ has become closer to a conviction.

“Winter,” Steve rasps, blinking back horrified tears. “That’s what I’m going to call you.”

The Soldier cocks his head, eyes fastening themselves intently on Steve’s collarbone, indicating that Steve has his full attention.

“Do you understand?” Steve asks him. “I’m not going to call you ‘Soldier’ or ‘Asset’. Those aren’t names, and you…” he takes a shuddery breath. “You deserve to have a name.”

The Soldier’s brow furrows slightly, undoubtedly confused at suddenly being presented with even this smallest scrap of identity.

“I know it’s not your real name,” Steve admits, “And I’ll try to find out what it really is. But, for now...Is it okay? If I call you Winter?”

The Soldier glances away nervously, but still nods in acquiescence — not that Steve expected anything less. It's become quite apparent that the Soldier has been _conditioned_ to comply. It’s probable that he’d agree with _anything_ Steve wanted to call him.

The thought is not reassuring in the least.

But giving the Soldier a name is nothing any decent person wouldn’t do, and Steve can't bring himself to call the Soldier by a title, especially after what the Hydra file has revealed about his past treatment.

He sets the file on the floor beside the cot, nowhere near ready to continue looking through it, even taking into account the fact that most of it is unreadable to him. 

His stomach growls loudly as hunger makes itself apparent despite the nausea still roiling in his gut.   
  
“Could I— Is there anything I could have to eat?” Steve asks the Soldier — asks _Winter_ — who has, by now, finished packing away the medical supplies in the duffel bag.   
  
Winter pushes the duffel beneath the cot and stands, heading into the kitchen-like room and returning with a couple of tan-colored MRE packages.   
  
With efficient movements, the Soldier slices one of the parcels open using one of the myriad of wicked-looking blades that are strapped about his form. He empties the individually-packaged contents onto the floor and delicately picks out the packs of dried snacks, setting them with exquisite care onto the cot beside Steve.

Steve, in turn, rips open the first one his hand lands on, which happens to be a pack of crackers. He pops one of the flat, crispy squares into his mouth and savors the salty flavor.

Winter continues to prepare the rest of the MRE, pouring the saltwater into the heater bag and then inserting the entree labeled “Mediterranean Chicken”.  He props the bag against the side of Steve’s cot, and waits for the meal to heat, eyes adopting that trademark thousand-yard expression as he stares blankly into space.

Steve frowns as he moves on to savoring the sweet chewiness of the raisins, noting the second MRE still lying untouched at the Soldier’s side. It must be for the Soldier, Steve concludes, though it seems odd that Winter has made no effort to prepare it for himself.  

Steve ponders over this for a moment before he has the horrible notion that perhaps Winter is waiting for _permission_.   

He hates the thought. Mentally recoils from it. It can’t be that, he decides. Winter is probably just not hungry at the moment.

But Steve hasn't seen any indication that the Soldier has eaten any more than Steve himself within the time they’ve been in this abandoned Hydra base.

Maybe the Soldier is just making sure that Steve is taken care of first, Steve thinks. Surely, he’ll eat after he’s seen to Steve.

He’s pulled out of his circling thoughts when Winter shifts, checking the temperature of the MRE. The Soldier seems satisfied, and passes the meal over to Steve, along with a plastic spork.

“Thanks,” Steve says, taking the package gratefully.

He spoons a bite of the heated chicken into his mouth, savoring the taste of the bland meal as if it’s an expensive course from a five-star-restaurant. The food quickly disappears along with the rest of the snacks and another full bottle of water.

He nibbles at the last remaining cookie and finds himself once again staring at the Soldier. Winter reacts to the gaze by picking up the second MRE and tilting the package questioningly in Steve’s direction.

“No,” Steve declines, frowning heavily. Because there’s no way to deny now that both packages had been brought for him. That the Soldier’d had no intention of feeding himself when he’d brought them out. “I’m okay. I’ve had enough.”

Though normally he’d easily consume twice as much and probably still be hungry, in his current state of disrepair his body has obviously decided that its had enough to fuel another healing sleep and his eyelids begin to grow increasingly heavy.

“Why don’t you go ahead and eat one?” Steve suggests, wondering if maybe the Soldier will feel more inclined to eat if he thinks it’s something Steve approves of.

But the Soldier only shakes his head, placing the MRE back onto the floor, and Steve is too tired to argue.

Maybe, he thinks, already half-asleep, Winter really _isn’t_ hungry. Maybe he’ll eat later, after Steve falls asleep.

 

—

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

✪ Ch. 4 ✪

 

 

The next time Steve wakes he asks for a shower.

He feels capable enough to get there on his own. It will be painful, he knows. He’s still not completely healed. But he doesn’t want to go any longer in the tattered remains of his suit, still stinking of the Potomac.

“We should both shower, I think,” Steve suggests shifting gingerly into a seated position. Winter watches uncertainty from only a few feet away as Steve attempts to get himself upright only to end up swaying dangerously on his feet once he manages. Steve chelches his teeth against the pain, which affirms, in no uncertain terms, that he should definitely still be in bed — preferably flat on his back.

It’s when Steve attempts to take a step away from the bed, however, that Winter’s uncertainty gives way to what appears to be determination to keep Steve from falling flat on his face. The Soldier moves forward, tucking his left side beneath Steve’s right shoulder and gently wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Thanks, bud,” Steve hisses, breathing strained. “Help me to the washroom would ya?”

Painstakingly, they make their way to the area Steve had previously identified as some sort of bathroom, and Steve learns that it is bigger than he’d thought.

Inside is a set of three conjoined shower stalls along with a closed off area housing a private toilet and sink. There are also a couple of low benches along one wall, a shelving unit, and a set of grey lockers where the former agents who had utilized this facility likely kept personal belongings.

Winter helps Steve over to one of the benches where Steve gingerly perches on the edge. The Soldier seems unsure of what to do next and so Steve asks, “Think you could find me some soap, buddy?”  

Winter goes over to the generic-looking shelves and pulls open the doors revealing sets of fresh towels, washcloths, and still-packaged bars of soap. He pulls out both a washcloth and a bar of soap and places them neatly atop one of the low walls of the shower stalls and then turns back to Steve— who is struggling to get the remaining lower half of his suit from about his legs without bending too severely at the waist.

On his best day, the suit is difficult to remove because it fits so tightly to his form. But tightness, coupled with the fact that the material has dried stiff from the brackish water of the Potomac, and then added to the fact that Steve can hardly move due to his injuries, and the task seems near-impossible. Steve huffs in frustration.

“Goddamnit,” he swears lowly, panting with effort.

Winter takes a small step forward and Steve glances up at the movement. “Sorry,” he apologizes, motioning towards the suit. “Thought this would be easier to get off.”

Winter makes a cutting motion with two metal fingers, and Steve quirks his lips in a small smile. “Yeah, scissors would probably help,” he admits, and the Soldier disappears into the other room.

He returns with the same medical-grade scissors he’d used before, and then kneels at Steve’s feet, glancing up briefly to receive Steve’s approval before he makes quick work slicing through the remaining tatters of the Captain America suit and Steve’s undergarments.

Steve sighs in relief as the stiff material loosens about his form. “Thanks, Winter,” he says. “Could you— uh. Do ya think you can help me over to the shower?”

The Soldier moves immediately, crouching to slide his metal arm beneath Steve’s shoulders and across his back and as he helps Steve to stand. Steve has the sudden urge to chuckle inanely at this bizarre turn of events.

The metal arm, which had been such a formidable weapon when used against him, has all of a sudden become an instrument of care and assistance.

Now, Steve no longer feels even the barest hint of a threat, even as the Soldier presses his metal prosthetic — easily capable of tearing through Steve’s flesh and bone with little effort — gently against his bare, vulnerable skin.

Winter helps Steve to hobble over to the communal shower and then over the short step that keeps the water inside the stalls.

He gets Steve settled against a tiled wall near the faucet dials and then makes as if to leave the stalls completely. He barely manages a step back, though, before Steve catches him by one of the myriads of straps fastened across the front of his body armor.

Winter halts automatically, unresisting, and Steve says softly, “You should get cleaned up too. You might as well, since we’re already here.”

The Soldier looks conflicted, his eyes darting from Steve’s hand still wrapped around his armor, to the shower-head, to the exit, and then back again.

After a strained moment, he taps the fingers of his metal hand against his chest, points to the shower-head, and then points to the open doorway where the main room is located.

Steve frowns in confusion. “I’m not sure what you’re saying,” he admits after a moment. “You don’t want to shower?”

Winter shakes his head slightly and then again points to the shower-head and then the exit. And Steve suddenly remembers the open, tiled area in the other room. The one next to the gaping cryotube, with a still-dripping pressure hose hanging from a hook in the wall and a rusty, metal drain inset into its flooring.

“You,” Steve begins in a strangled tone, “don’t use these showers, do you.”

It’s not a question, but Winter shakes his head in response regardless, looking something like relieved to have been understood.

As if to drive the point home, the metal hand presses gently to Steve’s shoulder and points to the shower-head, and then to Winter’s chest and the exit.

The Soldier makes to move away again, as if everything is settled, but Steve tightens his grip on the armor’s strap.

“ _No_ ,” he grits out, and the Soldier freezes at the harsh tone. He glances down at Steve’s hand, still keeping him from leaving, and then his blue eyes, filled with apprehension, dart up to rest on Steve’s left earlobe.

Steve feels Winter’s heart rate speed up, drumming persistently against the solid grip he has still pressed to the Soldier’s chest, and he experiences a sudden wash of shame at having made this man — whose been doing his best to take care of Steve — _afraid_.

“Sorry,” he apologizes contritely, loosening his grip on the Soldier’s armor. “Sorry, Winter. I’m not mad, I swear. I just. I’d really prefer it, if you’d take a shower here.”

Winter nods shallowly, ever compliant, and Steve tries to shove down the feeling that he’s doing something awful by essentially forcing the Soldier to do something he obviously thinks is Not Allowed.

“Thanks,” Steve says, trying to twist the situation into something the Soldier might feel more comfortable with. “You’re really doing me a favor, buddy. I’m probably gonna need your help getting back out.”

Whether the words make the Soldier feel better or not is anyone’s guess, but he stops attempting to retreat, instead falling into something like parade rest, ready to provide assistance when necessary.

It’s a step in the right direction, but still Steve says, in the least commanding tone he can manage, “Why don’t you go ahead and take those off,” and motions to the Soldier’s tac gear. “I’ll start the water.”

This time, Winter moves immediately to remove his armor, and Steve turns away in an effort to give the Soldier some privacy, fiddling with the dials that adjust the temperature and water pressure of the shower.

He gets the one closest to him running, but holds off on starting the shower right next to it, waiting for Winter to get all of his gear removed so that it doesn’t become even more waterlogged and difficult to take off.

It’s only for this reason that he catches the faintest sound of a hitched breath and instinctively turns to determine its cause.

What he finds is Winter, boots and socks already removed, tac pants unzipped but still about his hips, and struggling to get the upper portion of his armor off using his metal arm. Using _only_ his metal arm.

And Steve very suddenly feels like an incompetent idiot. A _blind_ incompetent idiot.

Because he’s only _just_ _now_ realizing that the Soldier has, in fact, been avoiding using his flesh arm the _entire time_ they’ve been in this Hydra base.

The arm attached to the shoulder that Steve had _dislocated_ so many days ago when they’d fought on the Helicarrier.

Winter’s enhancements mean that he should have healed by now, which is worrying, but makes little difference to the fact that Steve has completely missed that the Soldier has been keeping the appendage tucked in close to his body as much as he can.

Now, as Winter struggles, in obvious pain, to remove his gear, Steve can’t continue to stand by and watch. Winter has been completely willing to offer help in any way that Steve has asked for. The least Steve can do is return the favor. Especially as it becomes clear that the Soldier isn’t making much headway.

The problem, Steve realizes as he watches Winter’s unsuccessful attempts to undress, is that the Soldier can’t quite manage to maneuver the stiff leather of his tac jacket in such a way as to free his right arm without jarring it in excruciatingly painful movements. The left arm has only so much leverage, and it seems like Winter is himself doing more harm than good.

So Steve reaches out a cautious hand, pressing the tips of his fingers gently against the silvery metal wrist of the prosthetic in an effort to get the Soldier’s attention.

Winter immediately stops at the touch, breathing having become slightly ragged behind the mask due to what Steve can only assume is a mixture of pain and agitation.

“Lemme help you with that,” Steve suggests.

The Soldier doesn’t move away — doesn’t move _at all_ — and Steve takes the opportunity to slide a hand beneath his right elbow, gently supporting the weight of the arm while he lifts it away from the Soldier’s side, straightening it just enough to be able to slowly slide off the dark fabric of the sleeve.

Winter makes the tiniest of sounds, likely inaudible to non-enhanced ears. His brow furrows with discomfort, his eyes squeezing shut, and Steve murmurs, “Sorry, pal. I know it hurts. Almost there. Almost done.”

Finally he’s able to get the sleeve off all the way.

The shoulder, darkly discolored with bruising, looks painfully swollen, and Steve is once again struck by the thought that this injury — relatively mild for an enhanced super-soldier — should be long-past healed.

But healing is taxing on the body, and even more so on an enhanced body, which mends at an incredibly fast rate. It requires a good amount of food and rest, and — given his current state — Steve is now sure that Winter hasn’t been getting either of those things: The Soldier’s body is veritably _covered_ with the evidence of their previous altercations.

Bruises upon bruises overlap in a gruesome amalgam of purple and black, dark against the stark contrast of the Soldier’s pale skin. And while he’s well-muscled, there is not a spare inch of fat on his form. He’s _too_ lean.

Steve grimly takes in these details as he gently folds the Soldier’s flesh arm back against his body.

Once he’s been released, the Soldier steps away, continues with removing his pants. He pushes the fabric down with his left hand, shuffling around until he’s free of them and can bend down and scoop them off the floor, tossing them over the low wall to land with his other gear outside of the shower stalls.

He makes no attempt to remove the mask from his face.

Once the Soldier is bare he stands still, waiting. He doesn’t shift or shuffle with the discomfort one might normally feel at being unclad in front of a complete stranger, and Steve thinks about the file and the nude prisoner in the photographs and feels a wash of sorrow as he turns back to the dials and turns on the second shower.

The water rushes out with a hiss and the Soldier flinches back sharply at the sound, eyes gone wide.

“‘S okay, Winter,” Steve reassures, purposely misinterpreting the likely reason for the Soldier’s skittish behavior. “The water’s warm. C’mere you can test it.”

Always one to follow orders — even, apparently,  the _implied_ ones — Winter obediently steps forward, reaching out to feel the stream of water with his metal hand.

“How is it?” Steve asks, and the Soldier’s only response is to step further forward until the water sluices warm and wet down his body.

He keeps a nervous watch over Steve out of the corner of his eye, never allowing the other super-soldier to move outside his periphery, and Steve cheerlessly accepts the fact that the Soldier, though easily more dangerous in this situation considering the _metal_ _arm_ , still feels that Steve is the greater threat.  

Steve refuses to dwell on the _why_ of that depressing thought.

He scrubs himself down quickly, if not painlessly, and the Soldier stands there, still as a statue and just a tense, as if he’s not entirely sure what he should be doing. After long minutes, Steve has managed to wash every part of his body that he can reach without causing himself too much torment. He rinses the single washcloth and then, cognizant of Winter’s damaged arm, re-soaps the rag before he holds it out to the Soldier.

“Why don’t you go ahead and scrub down,” he suggests, after a handful of moments wherein Winter has only stared at the drenched cloth like might possibly grow teeth and bite him.

Slowly, the Soldier reaches for the soapy cloth, and then, just as slowly, touches it to his battered ribs, sliding it across his mottled flesh. Once Steve is reasonably sure that Winter will be fine on his own, he undertakes the task of getting himself back out of the shower and retrieving a couple of towels.  

It’s difficult, without the solid assistance of Winter at his side, but eventually Steve gets himself dried off and into a borrowed set of clean clothing, along with a pair of boots which are slightly tight but not too unbearable.

The dark-colored shirt and cargo pants are free from Hydra insignia, a fact for which Steve is supremely grateful, given the likelihood that such symbolism will only cement the idea that he’s some sort of handler, which — given the way Winter’s been reacting to him — he’s almost certain the Soldier sees him as.

He’s grabbing another towel and an identical set of clean clothing for the Soldier just as he hears the water shut off, and turns to see Winter stepping from the shower stalls, dripping unconcernedly all over the tiled flooring.

Steve shuffles over, passing first the towel and then the clothes to the Soldier, who dresses into the softer, more malleable fabric with significantly greater ease. When he’s finished, Winter steps back into his own boots, but leaves the laces undone, only pulling them tight with his metal hand and tucking them down inside the leather sides.

After he’s done so, though, Winter shoots a nervous glance up at Steve, as if Steve is his C.O. and has caught the Soldier violating dress protocol by not lacing up his boots properly.

Steve resolutely turns away from the beseeching expression, refusing to accept such a role.

It’s quite obvious that Winter literally _cannot_ tie the laces up himself. Does Winter think he’ll be reprimanded for not attempting to do so anyway?

Steve wouldn’t put it past Hydra. Wouldn’t put _anything_ past Hydra after what he’s seen in the Soldier’s file. But Steve’s not Hydra, and he’s not the Soldier’s commanding officer.

“I think we should eat,” Steve proposes. “Got any more MREs?”

 

—

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

✪ **Ch. 5** ✪

 

 

The Soldier takes point, and Steve slowly follows him out of the shower room, into the tiny kitchenette.

Therein, the cupboards are stocked with a variety of MREs, along with other non-perishables and canned foods characteristic of what one would find in a safehouse.

Steve grabs three MREs at random and heads back for his cot. He’s already feeling himself beginning to drag, despite the small amount of energy he’s expended, a state which can only be blamed on being active so soon after getting thoroughly beaten to a pulp.  

He sinks down onto the cot’s thin mattress and tears into the packaging of the first MRE. This time, he doesn't bother heating the meal, just begins to spoon the contents into his mouth with steady efficiency.

The Soldier reassumes his seated position on the floor beside the cot, a silent shadow on Steve’s left.

When he’s about halfway through the MRE, Steve’s energy levels even out. He feels more alert, no longer ready to pass out, and begins to take stock of his current situation, to make a plan for how he’s going to get out of this Hydra base.   

Obviously he’s still hours away from being able to leave under his own power. He needs at least one more solid day, he thinks, before he can reasonably risk attempting to walk out of here without assistance. He’s unsure of just how deep underground they are, but after a day or so, he should be able to manage making it to the surface. After that he’ll just need to find a method of transportation.

Though, that may not end up being necessary, he reconsiders.

If he can manage to find a phone, he can forgo attempting to leave entirely in lieu of simply contacting the other Avengers. He’s got the number for JARVIS’s emergency line memorized. He only needs a method of dialing out.

It shouldn’t be a problem, he decides. Either way he’ll manage. He can do it.

That is, of course, assuming that Winter doesn’t attempt to _keep_ Steve from leaving.

Steve highly doubts that the Soldier would. He’s been nothing but compliant to Steve’s every need, after all. And he’s already denied that Steve is, in any way, a prisoner.

Still, Steve thinks, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to test the waters. To be _sure_ that Winter doesn’t intend to offer any resistance.  

Steve glances over at the silent Soldier, still sitting docilely beside the cot, and thinks about what will happen to Winter when Steve decides to go. And about what _should_ happen to him.

For the first time since he’d awoken in this abandoned facility, Steve isn’t so completely focused on his own discomfort, and he starts to realize, as he takes in Winter’s appearance — _really_ takes it in, as he hasn’t before now — that the Soldier is not doing very well.

He looks exhausted, for one thing. Dark circles shadow the delicate skin beneath his blue eyes, and — more than pale — his skin looks sallow, sickly.

Steve vividly remembers the myriad of bruising spread across Winter’s too-thin body beneath his clothing, along with the swollen mess of his right shoulder, and he knows it’s of serious concern that the Soldier hasn’t been healing. That the Soldier hasn’t been _eating_.

Has he had nothing to drink in all this time as well?

And not once has Steve ever seen him sleep.

Enhanced or not, Winter’s current pattern of subsisting will lead to only one outcome: His body will shut down, no longer able to sustain him.

The idea is suddenly unbearable, and Steve resolves to try to keep the Soldier from that fate.

The first step is getting the Soldier to eat. Or, at the very least, to drink _something_.

On that note, Steve clears his throat. Winter straightens slightly at the noise, and then turns his head in Steve’s direction when the super-soldier asks, “Winter, when was the last time you had something to eat?”

The Soldier’s brow furrows and, after a long moment he very slightly shakes his head.

Steve tips one side of his mouth, humorlessly.

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying to tell me, buddy,” he states wryly. “Lemme try it this way: I haven’t seen you eat while I’ve been here. Have you been eating while I’ve been asleep?”

The Soldier’s eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head in the negative. He looks, Steve thinks grimly, like he’s been accused of doing something that’s _not allowed_. Like he’s afraid that Steve thinks he’s been breaking the rules. By _eating_.

And Steve remembers very clearly the annotation from the Hydra file, _‘Once the subject recognizes that those providing succor are in complete control, he will come to accept that the only food he will receive will come from that source, and he will continue to look to that source for relief…’_ and feels a renewed burn of outrage at the way the Soldier’s been treated.

He considers the idea that maybe food-restriction is another function of the mask — beyond acting as a muzzle. And Steve suddenly _hates_ that mask with a vicious fury that has, thus far, been turned only on the most deplorable of individuals Steve’s come into contact with.

“Okay,” Steve says, fighting to keep his voice calm. “What about something to drink, have you had anything?”

Unsurprisingly, the Soldier again shakes his head, and Steve drags in a deep breath. Holds it.  

He releases the air on a slow exhalation before he states with forced calm, “That’s. That’s not good, buddy.”

The words seem to make the Soldier even more nervous, but Steve continues anyway, “You’ve gotta eat. And drink too, or else your body is gonna shut down on itself. I know you’re stronger than the average person, the average soldier. But that means that your body needs _more_ to keep up with those enhancements. That’s why you're not healing. You’re like me. Or similar, at least. We both need a lot of resources to keep us in good condition.”

Winter focuses with avid attention on Steve’s collarbone as the super-soldier provides the explanation, and Steve knows he’s listening, but still, he asks, “Do you understand?”

Winter nods first, then shakes his head. Shakily he raises his metal hand to point to Steve’s MRE and then to Steve himself.

“Yes,” Steve agrees, easily understanding the broken signs. “You’re right. I've been eating. I need to eat.”

Winter nods, looking weary but determined, and points to his own stomach, shakes his head. He then points to the mask, and back to his stomach, and again shakes his head.

Steve frowns, struggling for a moment, because the Soldier cannot possibly be trying to tell Steve what he _thinks_ those signs are implying.

Still, Steve has to ask, “Are you telling me that you _don’t_ _eat_?”

And Winter nods, eyes clearing with relief. He points again to Steve and then to himself and to the packages of nearby water bottles. Nods once more.

“You drink,” Steve clarifies, “like me. But you don’t eat like me.”

The Soldier confirms with a shallow incline of his head.  

It doesn’t make any sense, what Winter is telling him. He _has_ to eat. As much as Hydra worked to bend the Soldier to their will, they hadn’t _actually_ made him into a robot. Which means he cannot survive without substance. Without _food_.

Steve turns Winter’s rudimentary signs over in his head, and finds himself caught on the image of the Soldier pointing to the mask.

“The mask,” he persists. “It keeps you from eating. From drinking anything.”

He doesn’t quite turn the words into questions — it’s quite obvious that the mask is a hindrance — but Winter nods anyway.

“We have to take it off,” Steve says firmly, resolute. “You _need_ to eat Winter, or drink some water, at least.”

But the Soldier is already shaking his head, and when Steve reaches forward saying, “Do you need help? Can you not do it on your own?” the Soldier flinches violently away, refusing, for the first time, to capitulate to Steve’s will.

Steve stops immediately, pulling his hands away, but it’s apparently not enough because the Soldier scoots back, completely out of Steve’s reach, breaths hissing sharply through the small slits in the mask. His eyes are wild behind the dark fall of his hair.

Steve holds his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, contrite. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I won’t touch it. Or you, if you don’t want me to. It’s your choice.”

He’d been thinking that maybe, since Winter has given multiple indications that he sees Steve as some sort of superior, he’d allow _Steve_ to remove the mask.

Now, though, Steve kicks himself for the assumption.

It’s quite clear that there’s a lot of fear connected to the removal of the mask, and unfortunately, if the risks of dehydration and starvation are not enough to persuade the Soldier to remove the inhumane device, Steve’s not sure what will.

“I really am sorry, Winter,” Steve murmurs at the visibly distressed soldier. “I swear I won’t try to take the mask again. Not without your permission.”

The Soldier doesn't respond, and Steve resigns himself to the possibility that he’s broken whatever small amount of trust Winter might have placed in him.

He sits for long minutes on the cot, watching the assassin huddled in on himself.

The Soldier’s face is blank, and the trembling that runs through his body is minute, but there’s no doubt that Winter is still shaken up. The Soldier holds himself tense — alert, and visibly prepared to retreat again if, Steve thinks, he feels threatened.

Steve hardens his jaw. He won’t attempt to remove the mask again. Not yet. But he absolutely _refuses_ to allow the Soldier to die of something so simple as malnutrition.

Determined, now, to be proactive, Steve takes a mental tally of the facts:

The Soldier has neither eaten nor had anything to drink since Steve woke up here, which, given the state of Steve’s injuries and the rate of his healing, has to be going-on seventy-two hours at least.  Super-soldier metabolism does not do well with starvation. Which is why Steve, himself, has eaten multiple times.

The Soldier is hurt. His right shoulder is a mess. His body is covered in bruises. And he isn’t healing like he should be.

He needs a doctor.

He needs to get _that thing_ off his face.

All factors lead to the conclusion that Avengers Tower is the best place for the Soldier. Tony has access to the best doctors. He, himself, is a genius and an engineer. And he has a Hulk-containment room. If it turns out that the Soldier becomes violent, in _need_ of containment _,_ the resources will be available at the tower.

And there’s the other aspect to consider:

The question of whether or not the Winter Soldier is truly Hydra.

Had he really chosen to work for the terrorist organization? Or is he’s simply another victim that had been caught in their claws and viciously exploited?

Steve knows what he believes. He’ll need Natasha or JARVIS, to fully translate the contents of that horrific file, but he has little doubt that the Soldier is a victim.  

When he compiles the evidence — the Soldier’s submissive posturing, the way he avoids eye contact, flinches away from touch, his excessively meek obedience — it all points to someone who’s been abused. Brutally.  

On top of all that is the macabre equipment Hydra had routinely used on the Soldier, scattered throughout this facility. It’s impossible to believe that someone would choose to undergo such torture.

But even if, by some impossibility, all of Steve’s suspicions turn out to be wrong, even if the Soldier was _willingly_ Hydra, he’d still saved Steve. Had rescued him from drowning in the Potomac and has been helping him, tending to him, ever since.

If only for that reason, Winter deserves fair treatment. He deserves to be able to tell his story. To get a fair trial for all of the things he’s done under Hydra command. And Steve will make sure that he gets that.

First, though, he needs to get in contact with Tony.

Straightening his shoulders, Steve clears his throat.

“Winter, I need to contact my team,” he says, firmly.

The Soldier drags up his gaze, eyes fastening onto Steve’s collarbone.

“Is there a phone around here somewhere that I can use? Or a computer, maybe?”

Winter doesn’t respond right away. He appears to be thinking, or maybe he’s just reluctant to allow Steve to leave. Steve can’t imagine why that would be. The Soldier has already told Steve that he isn’t a prisoner. So Steve presses the issue.

“My team needs to know where I am, so that they can come get me. You’ve been… You’ve been really helpful. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made it out of the water without you. And,” he leans forward, earnestly searching what he can of the Soldier’s face, “you’ve kept me going for these past few days. But it’s time for me to leave now. Probably best if I see a doctor, too. To make sure I’m healing okay.”

Steve knows that he will heal just fine. But, strangely, it seems to be a point of importance to the Soldier — Steve’s health — and if that will push the Soldier’s compliance in Steve’s favor then Steve will use it.

The Soldier nods, finally, and Steve releases a silent breath of relief.

“Okay. Okay, thank you, Winter.”

The Soldier shifts to his feet, apparently ready to fulfill Steve’s request right away, and Steve sinks back onto his cot, assuaged by the knowledge that he will soon be getting out of this Hydra-facility-cum-Winter-Soldier-torture-chamber.

His relief allows his body to relax, and he feels himself growing tired again, ready to slip back into healing mode.

When he wakes again, he decides, he’ll make the call.

 

—

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

✪ **Ch. 6** ✪

 

 

The Soldier is nowhere to be seen when next Steve opens his eyes. Again, there’s no telling how long he’s been asleep, but it can’t have been too long, he thinks, if Winter is still off finding Steve a method by which to contact his team. 

However long his nap had been, Steve feels only the dullest of aches keeping him from declaring himself completely healed.

Encouraged, Steve swings his legs over the side of the cot and gets to his feet with only a small grunt of effort.

He glances around, and when there’s still no sign of the Soldier, decides to have a look about  the facility.

He starts with the assortment of computers on the far side of the room. It doesn’t take him long to realize that the computers are connected via some sort of internal system. There’s no way, that he’s able to identify, of sending a message outside of that system.

It’s not too big of a deal. If Steve wanted to he thinks he’d be able to make it out of this facility at this point. He might have to rough it for a while, depending on how close to civilization he actually is. But he’s a lot more capable now than he’d been a couple of days ago.

He taps away at the keyboard a little longer, trying to get the sense of what kind of information is contained within the system.

There’s logs of documentation, over half of it in Russian and German, though there’s some in English as well. Based on what he can tell, Steve believes that the computers were mostly used for storing data.

He moves away from the computers after that, and begins rifling through the paper files within the metal filing cabinet. There’s folders dated all the way back to the 1940s, but what really catches Steve’s attention is a small, leather-bound book near the front of one of the drawers. The cover of the book is bright red, inlaid with a black star that matches almost perfectly the design of the star on Winter’s metal arm, as if the Soldier’s red star had been cut from the cover, leaving only a black scar as evidence of its former existence.

Warily, Steve flips open the cover, the memory of the horrors he’d discovered in the last Winter Soldier file forefront in his mind.

Again, most of the contents are in Russian, though this time they are handwritten, and Steve scans through the pages, looking for nothing in particular.

About halfway in, he comes across a diagram beside which a list of words are underlined and boxed, as if to emphasize their importance. There are nine phrases altogether and Steve peers at them closely, moving his mouth to sound out the Russian, wondering if hearing the words aloud might bring more clarity of meaning.

 _“Zh-zhelaniye_ ,” he tries. The word translates as ‘desire’ or ‘longing’.

The next two words are a bit easier.

“ _Rzhavye_.” Rusted. “ _Semnadtsat_.” Seventeen.

He’s just beginning to sound out the fourth word on the list when he’s cut off by the sound of a muffled thud, quickly followed by a light clatter.

He glances up to find that the Soldier’s returned, and has dropped to his knees.  A small disposable phone lies forgotten on the floor beside him.

The Soldier’s sides heave, sharp gasps sounding from behind the tiny openings within the mask, his mismatched hands pressing tightly against his ears as he curls into himself.

Steve slams the book shut, quickly abandoning it on top of the filing cabinet.

“Winter?” He calls. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He approaches the Soldier, who is in obvious distress — agitated — body trembling harshly, eyes squeezed shut as he rocks rhythmically back and forth.

There are no outward signs of physical injury that could potentially be the cause of such a reaction.

It’s a panic attack, Steve thinks, it must be. A vicious one.

His eyes lock onto the Soldier’s hands, still tightly clasped over his ears, and a bolt of understanding strikes through him.

Steve’s heard of Russian trigger words. How they can awaken sleeper agents, or incite certain institutionalized behaviors, depending on how they’d been implanted.

The phrases he’d been reading aloud had been underlined and outlined, emphasized as important. In hindsight, it’s easy to conclude that the words are triggers for the Winter Soldier.

He’s not sure what reaction the phrases are meant to provoke, but it’s quite obvious that whatever their intent, the Soldier wants nothing to do with them.

Steve sinks to his knees, reaching out to gently grasp the Soldier’s wrists just below where his hands press on either side of his head.

Though the Soldier immediately loosens the tension of his hands, unresisting should Steve decide to pull them away, Steve doesn’t take advantage of the easy compliance.

Instead, he murmurs, knowing that the Soldier can hear him beneath his loosened grip,

“Sorry, Winter. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Didn’t know what the words were.”

Slowly, the Soldier’s labored breathing begins to even out, and Steve solemnly asserts, “I promise, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

After another few moments, the Soldier drops his hands, though his head remains downturned, and Steve reaches out, lightly touching the crown of the former Hydra operative’s dark head with the tips of his fingers.

The Soldier flinches instinctively away from the touch, but then, astonishingly, leans _back in,_ pressing gingerly into the gentle contact and Steve’s lips part, jaw dropping at the display.

It’s so... _sweet_. Unbelievably so.

It’s also completely incongruous with the character of the Winter Soldier that Steve had come up against both on that bridge in DC and then, later, on the Helicarrier.

That Soldier had been terrifyingly lethal. A killing machine. A loaded gun to be pointed at the enemy.

But now, cut free from the strings Hydra had been pulling to control their perfect assassin, and the word Steve thinks of to describe the Soldier’s behavior is _sweet_. It should be an utterly ridiculous description.

Except that he _is_.

Even after all of the atrocities and abuse he’s suffered at the hands of Hydra, and all of the things he’d _done_ under their control, the Soldier is like a stray cat. Wary but touch-starved, craving affection.

After a moment spent allowing the Soldier to tentatively huddle beneath the light pressure of Steve’s hand, Steve becomes aware of the feverish heat rising from the Soldier’s skin.

Alarmed, Steve brushes sweat-dampened tangles away from the Soldier’s face before he grasps either side of his jaw.

Hey,” he says, as glassy blue eyes stare emptily over his right shoulder. “Hey, Winter, are you with me?”

His eyes dart over the Soldier, examining the former Hydra operative with sharper focus. He catalogues Winter’s pale, sweaty skin, how his body shakes with unceasing tremors, his glassy eyes and feverish temperature, and comes to the obvious conclusion that something is seriously wrong — and worse than before.

Whatever time the Soldier has left before his body shuts down is beginning its countdown, and if Steve wants to prevent that disastrous outcome he needs to get ahold of Tony _now_.

“Okay,” Steve says, adopting a confident tone. “Okay, Winter let’s get you up.”

He shifts his hands to grip beneath Winter’s elbows helping to hoist the unresisting Soldier to his feet.

“There you go,” Steve says. “C’mon, this way.”

With soft words he coaxes the Soldier over to the cot where he himself had been bedridden not that long ago, and with gentle firmness, manages to persuade the lethargic assassin to lie down.

Once he’s horizontal, the Soldier seems to sink into himself, eyes emptying. What little of his expression that can be seen above the mask has gone blank.

Steve leaves him be for the moment, trekking back over to retrieve the small burner phone from where the Soldier had dropped it. He flips the ancient-looking device open and wastes no time shooting off a quick text to Tony via JARVIS.

After that, it’s a waiting game.

Steve assumes a seated position near the cot, snacking unenthusiastically on some dried fruit left over from one of the MREs, and reflects humorlessly on how his and the Soldier’s positions have reversed in this strange turn of events.

Every so often he takes stock of the Soldier’s condition, noting when his breathing becomes slightly more shallow, how his skin stays clammy with sweat even as he shivers and trembles. He’s become listless, seemingly unalert, and Steve can only hope that Tony hurries.

He’s leaning back against a leg of the cot, eyes shut and head tilted to rest against its soft, cushion-like mattress, when Winter suddenly jerks upright.

The Soldier tumbles from the cot, lunging clumsily for his weapon which, thus far, has been lying idly on the ground nearby, forgotten, and brings the gun up just as Iron Man comes crashing through the unlocked front doors, repulsors armed and raised.

Widow and Hawkeye follow right after, and then everything seems to move very quickly.

Natasha, face like granite, says something hard and clipped in Russian, and the Soldier’s gaze darts from Iron Man’s threatening stance to center on her instead. His eyes are wide with fear, though his left hand holds his weapon steady, and Steve feels a rush of alarm for both sides of this disastrous confrontation.

Having jumped to his feet sometime during the commotion, Steve moves to the Soldier’s side — not quite in the line of fire, but close enough to hinder either side from shooting right away — and holds out a placating hand.

“ _Steve,”_ Natasha growls, but Steve ignores her in favor of talking to the Soldier — panic-stricken, dragging in sharp, shallow breaths.

“Hey, pal it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid. These people aren’t gonna hurt you. Or me,” he adds belatedly, realizing that the Soldier had initially moved in such a way so as to place himself _between_ Steve and the Avengers whom he’d obviously deemed a threat. “They’re my friends,” Steve says, and finally the Soldier’s eyes move in his direction. “You can put the gun down. It’s okay, we’re safe.”

The Soldier’s hand wavers, the gun lowers a fraction, and it’s all the opening Natasha needs.

Lightening quick comes the sharp hiss of a loosed shot, and then a dart appears embedded in the vulnerable skin of the Soldier’s neck, no longer protected by his combat armor.

The Soldier startles violently, terror surging up strong where it had just barely begun to recede, and he raises the gun again only for another two darts to appear high up on his chest.

The Soldier drops to his knees, wide eyes going ever-so-slightly dazed, and Natasha seizes the opportunity, dashing forward, kicking the gun from the Soldier’s loosened grip, and shoving him roughly the rest of the way down to the ground, a knee dug solidly between his shoulder-blades.

Despite his rapidly draining strength, the Soldier struggles, knocking Natasha off of his back and straining to get to his feet. Steve sees the flash of vicious fury that flares in Natasha’s eyes and goes to spring forward himself, only to be jerked bodily back by Clint’s sudden grip around his wrist.

“ _Natasha,”_ Steve hisses sharply. Only the years spent training himself not to utilize his superior strength against non-enhanced friendlies keeps him from instinctively knocking Clint away, as he drags himself a step forward despite the archer’s attempt to hold him back.

The Soldier, having seen Clint grab Steve, obviously interprets it as a threat and begins to struggle that much harder to gain control of himself, and Steve watches Natasha bring up a boot to knock the Soldier unconscious, the drugs obviously not working fast enough for her tastes, and Steve simply _refuses_ to let her damage the Soldier any further.

“Don’t hurt him!” he snarls at the redhead jerking himself forward another step. “Don’t—” and then, to the struggling Soldier, “ _Bucky_ , don’t fight it! It’s okay. You’ll be okay!”

The poor Soldier looks more confused than ever as his struggles grow weaker and weaker until finally, he falls limp, shuddering and panting, prone on the ground, as Natasha cuffs his wrists tightly behind the small of his back.

His blue eyes are still awash with fear as the drug gains the upper hand and, as Steve watches him lose the fight against unconsciousness, that gaze connects with his for the first time.

Guilt rises up strong enough to choke him at what he sees swirling within the depths of those wide eyes just before they finally slide closed, and Steve knows he won’t forget what the Soldier’s gaze had revealed. Beyond the terror: betrayal. And, on its heels: hopeless resignation.

 

—

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

✪ **Ch. 7** ✪

 

 

“You’re _not_ fucking _keeping_ him in there,” Steve snarls, stabbing a finger in the direction of the Soldier who lies unconscious on the floor of the Hulk containment room Tony’d had built into the tower as part of Bruce’s conditions for living there. “He’s a _victim_. He’s not a threat.”

They’re standing in the attached observation room — he, Tony, and Natasha — which allows them to not only view the containment area through a panel of one-way glass, but also through the video feed of several cameras strategically placed within the room itself.

“You don’t know that, Steve,” Natasha says. “You’re compromised.” 

Steve scoffs, “What exactly gives you the impression—”

“You called him ‘Bucky’.” 

Steve freezes. Had he? He can’t recall doing so, can’t even _imagine_ himself having done so. But, even if he _had_ , “It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the _facts_.”

“Steve, come on,” Tony says, “There’s no way this guy is innocent. He’s killed probably hundreds of people.”

“Read the goddamn file then,” Steve growls. “Read it, and then try and convince me that he’s anything but a victim. Hydra tortured and brainwashed that man—“  
  
Tony throws his hands into the air. “So _what_ if Hydra didn’t mollycoddle him. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s an assassin! He even tried to kill _you_ , for fucks sake! I’ve seen the footage. He beat the living hell out of you.”   
  
“He _saved_ me,” Steve asserts. “Without him I’d be dead right now! Hydra put me in his sights. Ordered him to kill me. And still, as soon as he was free of them, he only tried to help me.”   
  
“He had a gun, Steve!”   
  
“He was trying to _protect_ me! He didn’t so much as threaten me the entire time I was with him. He only grabbed that gun when you guys crashed into the place without any warning.”

It isn't strictly the truth about the gun, but it’s close enough so as to be basically the same thing.

“I’ve been with him for nearly three days,” Steve continues stubbornly. “If he’d wanted to kill me he would have already. I was fucking _bedridden_ for close to forty-eight hours. You can’t try to tell me he didn’t have plenty of opportunity to do whatever he wanted with me. And you know what he did? He fed me. Gave me water. Cleaned and bandaged my injuries.”

“So he was playing the long game, then,” Natasha cuts in smoothly, completely unruffled. “Fixing you up while waiting for Hydra to come retrieve you both.”  
  
And hadn’t Steve considered that possibility himself? But it didn’t fit with the rest of Winter’s behavior toward him. The Soldier has capitulated to Steve’s every request. He’d even brought Steve the damned phone he’d used to contact the rest of the team.   
  
“Why’d he bring me the goddamned phone, then?” Steve challenges. “All I had to do was _ask_ , and he brought it right to me. He brought all of you, _right to me_.”   
  
“I can’t pretend to know what his reasoning was,” Natasha says, coolly. “Or what his endgame is, at this point. But he’s been trained to be a master manipulator. And I can’t ignore the fact that you seem to have fallen right into his trap.”   
  
Steve grips the bridge of his nose. “He’s not trying to trap me,” he says tiredly, suddenly sick of arguing. “Can’t you trust me on this? I’m a master tactician too, you know.”   
  
Natasha’s hard expression cracks a little, and Steve sees and decides he’ll take what he can get.   
  
“He’s hurt,” he presses, angling for compassion. “His body hasn’t been healing itself like it should with the serum. That— that _mask_ has kept him from eating or drinking anything, but he won’t take it off. Wouldn’t let me try to take it off either. Surely denying himself basic needs doesn’t play into his master plan. All it seems to be doing is weakening him.”

Natasha doesn’t have a quick answer for that, and Tony cuts into her silence.

“About the mask,” he says, thumbing through some data that he’s pulled up on his phone. “JARVIS has finished doing some scans of your precious Murder-Lamb’s head — among other things — and apparently there’s a metal plate attached to his brain.”  
  
“A _metal_ _plate_?” Steve repeats, incredulous. “That—” he swallows. “That can’t be a good thing.”  
  
“Hmm. Probably not, since it seems to be connected to your honey-bunny’s BDSM mask,” Tony agrees absently, still flicking through the data. “It’s wirelessly connected — go Hydra technicians — and can be activated by a signal from the mask…” he pauses, chewing on his lip. “...to deliver something like forty amps of electrical charge directly to his brain.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “No wonder he didn’t want me anywhere near it.”  
  
“It’s not enough to _kill_ him,” Tony says, “especially since he’s enhanced. But it would hurt like hell. And it’d probably incapacitate him for a time. And, well,” he huffs, “Done enough times in a row, I suppose it actually _could_ prove fatal.”  
  
“We’ve got to get it off of him,” Steve says. “Tony, you have to get that _thing_ off of him.”   
  
Tony finally glances up from the phone, grim-faced. “You don’t need to tell me twice, Cap. Even I don’t condone non-consensual, Hydra-sponsored brain frying. But...”

Steve stiffens, bracing himself for more arguing, but Tony seems to sense his frustration because he humorlessly quirks his lips.

“Relax, Chuckles,” he says wryly.  “I was just going to say that it could be dangerous to your new BFF, okay? I’m trying to be _helpful_ here. There’s no telling what will happen if I tamper with the mask’s mechanics. If I try to block the signal, it could trigger the plate to fry him anyway as a deterrent from attempting that method of deactivation. And there’s no telling how strong the electrical pulse would be, without the mask to regulate it. Could be the charge gets stronger. Or maybe it’ll trigger multiple electrical surges in a row instead of just one.”

The genius engineer blows out a sharp breath.

“Our best bet,” he continues, “would be to read through the files we collected from the base you and your love-bunny were hiding away in. See if there any specs on the mask that I can use to reverse-engineer it. Or better yet, deactivation codes so that I can skip the engineering part altogether. Oh and by the way, you’re pal is waking up.”

Steve jerks his gaze toward the observation window, and sure enough, the Soldier is beginning to stir.   
  
Steve glances back at Nat and Tony both, jaw stubbornly jutting out, and informs them lowly,   
  
“I’m going in there now, and if anyone tries to try to stop me, I’ll be going through them too.”   
  
Neither of the two moves, but Natasha quirks a brow.

“No need to be so melodramatic, Steve,” she says, breezily. “We’re not going to try to stop you. There are already multiple contingencies in place if he tries to attack you. He’s in the Hulk’s room, remember?”

Steve grits his teeth, annoyance resurfacing.

“Thanks for the display of confidence in my ability to take care of myself, Nat.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, more seriously. “This is— this is important. I understand you think that the Soldier is a victim. But that doesn’t discount the fact that he is — or _was_ — a key player in advancing Hyrda’s goals. He has information we need. Passcodes. Base locations. Details about Hydra’s inner workings that could prove to be invaluable. Once the political systems recover from Hydra’s betrayal, they’re gonna be out for blood. And whatever way you slice it, he’s going to be the one they want to crucify.”

Steve drags a hand sharply through his hair. “What are you getting at, Nat?”

“If he’s as innocent as you say he is, he’ll have no loyalty to Hydra. Get him to give up that information.”

“She’s right, Steve,” Tony says. “He’s under our roof now, we can play by our rules — be _fair,_ if that’s something you’re worried about. He won’t get a better offer from any other agencies that’ll want to bring him in. At least if he’s giving us information, we can use that as a bargaining chip.”

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “If he’s cooperating, we may be able to use that as an excuse to prevent them from apprehending him. Because if they get their hands on him Steve, they won’t have the same reservations about his treatment as we might. They’ll see him as the enemy. As a murderer. And they’ll prosecute him however they decide makes them look best in the eyes of the public. So _get him talking_. Make him being here, under our supervision, of _import_. If we’re getting answers out of him, it will be more difficult for them to steal him away.”

 

—

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

★ **Ch. 8** ✪

 

 

The first thing it becomes aware of is the silence. Wherever it is, the quiet is heavy, oppressive. 

The next sensation is pain.

It _hurts_. The head, the body. Everything aches or throbs — an incessant clamor of agony.

It lays unmoving for long moments. It remembers: _Don’t move_. _Don’t draw attention._

It remembers...falling.

No.

 _Jumping_.

Stretching out the metal hand, grasping a leather harness. And then— swimming, tugging, fighting the pull of the water.

The Mission coughs up water but doesn’t wake, and the Asset’s mind shrieks with the need to retreat. To find cover. To go to ground.

But it shrieks louder when the Asset tries to disappear into the tree-line, tries to leave the Mission alone, _unprotected_ , on the shore.

So, it takes the Mission.

The Mission sustained heavy damage.

The Asset provided necessary assistance: Water. Medical aid. Sustenance. The Mission healed. Took charge. Became the Handler.

Now.

Now the Asset is under new command. It was appropriated, restrained, relocated.

The eyes slide open, analyzing what surroundings the Asset can see from its position on cold flooring.

The room is almost completely empty apart from the Asset itself.

It sees: white walls, white flooring, video surveillance barely visible, a mirrored window.

The door, also white, is unmistakably reinforced and equipped with a heavy-duty mechanical lock. The Asset knows, without needing to make an attempt, that it will not be able to force the door open.

There are covered ventilation shafts near the ceiling. Assessment: Convenient method for filtering in vaporous gas.

Not that the Asset’s new handlers will need to utilize this method. They have already demonstrated that their willingness and ability to tranquilize it when necessary. And — it tests its range of movement as surreptitiously as it can manage — the Asset is still restrained. Vulnerable to sedation attempts.

It’s combat boots have been removed, leaving its feet bare, though it is still clothed in the flimsy civilian wear its new handler had provided to it after its mandated ‘shower’.

The mind screeches anxiously with the Asset’s realization of its helplessness. The heart races. The breathing whistles sharply through the openings of the mask clamped to its face. It is _afraid._

There come a series of audible _clicks_ , loud against the deep silence of the room, and the Asset realizes that the door is being unlocked, that it is swinging inward, that it is _opening._

A man — tall, blond, blue eyed — steps inside.

The Mission — Handler, Captain America, I’m-Steve-Rogers — shuts the door behind him. 

—

When Steve steps inside the oppressively quiet, overly-bright containment cell, the Soldier has already begun to awkwardly back his way into a corner of the room.

He’s rolled into a seated position, and he uses his bare feet to push himself backward, as far from Steve as he can get.

His rapid breathing is audible amid the silence of the room, and his panicked gaze darts from Steve to the door, to the observational glass, and back to Steve again.

“Hey,” Steve says, crouching down to be at eye-level with a man who never makes eye-contact. “Hey, buddy calm down. I just came to check in on you. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The Soldier draws his knees up to his chest, creating a meager barrier between Steve and himself. His body begins to tremble.

“You’re in an Avengers facility,” Steve tries, hoping more information might help the Soldier to orient himself, make him less afraid. “We brought you here while you were asleep. You’re no longer with Hydra. You’re safe from them. They can’t hurt you anymore. Do you understand?”

The reassurances don’t seem to touch the Soldier at all. He doesn’t react, doesn’t respond in any way. As if he doesn’t understand the words. As if Steve is speaking a foreign language.

Steve frowns slightly, sliding fractionally closer to the Soldier, raising an outstretched, placating hand, and _that_ causes a reaction.

The Soldier flinches back, _hard_. He’s so close to the wall behind him that the movement causes the back of his head to smack against its unyielding surface, and his breath hitches, eyes narrowing and tearing up from the pain of it.

Steve halts his movement immediately, and the realization sinks in that nothing he says or attempts right now will succeed at calming Winter.

So, he retreats. Backs away from the panicked Soldier, withdraws, defeated, to the hallway outside the door as soon as JARVIS releases the mechanical locks.

—

“Those vitals are not looking good,” Steve hears Sam saying as he returns to the observation room.

The dark-skinned man is standing next to Tony, analyzing a floating projection which displays a readout of the Soldier’s heart-rate, respiration, temperature and blood pressure.  

“Hey Cap,” the Falcon says, turning as Steve enters the room and holding out his arms for an embrace. “Sorry I missed your rescue mission. These assholes let me sleep through the entire thing.”

Steve steps into the hug, squeezing the other man tight, and receiving much the same treatment. “It’s good to see you, Sam.”

“You too, man.” Sam steps back, looking Steve over with the competence of a former pararescue airman. “Gotta say I was expecting you to be in pretty bad shape considering the Helicarrier footage, where you’ve been, and who with.”

“Well,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I had a lot of assistance with getting better.” He tips his head toward the dark figure curled up in the corner of the containment cell. “I’d like to return the favor.”

“Yeah, he’s not looking too hot,” Sam reiterates glancing at the hunched up Soldier.

“Actually,” Tony quips, swiping through multiple projections, “he’s looking pretty hot to JARVIS. He’s burning up.”

Sam rolls his eyes, turning back at Steve. “He really save you from that Helicarrier disaster?”

“Pulled me out of the water,” Steve confirms. Then, at Sam’s inquiring expression, “I— uh, fell. One of the support structures collapsed and I hit the Potomac, unconscious. The Soldier jumped in after me. Dragged me to shore. I’d probably be dead now if it weren’t for him.”

Sam whistles softly. “That’s...really something, Steve. And you don’t think he had an ulterior motive?”

He asks this levelly, brown eyes serious but without judgement, and Steve is so grateful, suddenly, to have at least one person around who hasn’t completely condemned the Winter Soldier based upon his reputation alone.

“I asked him, Sam,” Steve says. “Plain and simple. I asked him if I was a prisoner, if he was planning to turn me over to Hydra.”

Tony scoffs loudly, but Sam only raises his brows. “And?”

“He said— he _indicated_ , emphatically, that I wasn’t. He stayed near me, took care of me, and he—” Steve shakes his head, finding it difficult to believe himself. “He was... _guarding_ me. That’s why he pulled that gun on the others. He thought I was in danger.”

“That’s,” Sam says. “I gotta be honest with you man, that’s hard to believe. Not that I _don’t_ believe you. But it’s… It doesn’t make any sense when compared to what we know about the Winter Soldier. It just... It doesn’t add up, is all I’m saying.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Believe me, Sam, I realize how unbelievable it sounds.”

“Steve,” Tony says, “you’re gonna need to go back in there. We still need answers.”

“Tony, you can’t possibly think that interrogating the Soldier is the most important thing right now,” Steve protests. “He needs _medical_ _attention_. Not to mention the fact that he’s terrified. I don’t think he’s mentally _capable_ of giving us answers.”

“I’m not sending some poor human nurse in there to get throttled by an unstable Hydra operative,” Tony says. “ _And_ ,” he points an accusing finger at Steve, “we need to know what we’re dealing with before we let emotions get involved.”

Steve sets his jaw, ready to argue but before he can get a word out, Tony huffs and turns from his screens to pin Steve with a serious expression. “Look,” he says, “there’s only so long I can keep him being here a secret. Hill’s already been sending me messages about our little ‘rescue mission’.

“Natasha’s translating that file, and JARVIS and I are going through a shit-ton of data we uploaded from the computers in that base. Right now you’re our best bet for building a rapport with the Soldier, if there’s any hope of gaining his trust. So put on your friendly-neighborhood Captain America face and go play nice. And if he's as much of a _victim_ as you’re so convinced he is, then let him tell you to your face. As for me, I’m going to my workshop. I’ll let you know if I come across anything that’s a game-changer.”

 

—

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

✪★ **Ch. 9** ★✪

 

 

Steve decides to give the Soldier a bit of a break, and doesn’t head back into the containment room until a little over an hour has passed.

Before he’d headed for his workshop, Tony’d given Steve a set of tiny earpieces to stay connected with Sam, who had agreed to keep an eye on Winter’s vitals, and to provide whatever guidance he could offer based upon his background as both a paramedic and a counselor.

Steve’s incredibly grateful for the lifeline as he makes to step back into a situation with nearly no idea about how to proceed.

He knows the main goals. He and Sam had come up with a rudimentary sort of game-plan while allowing the Soldier time to decompress.

Mostly it had consisted of firstly, getting the Soldier to allow Steve close enough to hook him up to an IV — “He needs fluids, man, and that’s probably the easiest way to get them to him with that mask in the way,” Sam had said. “Also you may wanna note whatever symptoms of illness he’s displaying; he’s looking pretty rough, and if his serum is anything like yours, I doubt it’s because he’s caught a bug.”

The second goal is to get the Soldier talking — or writing, really, since he doesn’t seem to be capable of speaking through the mask.

As much as Steve is reluctant to hold him accountable, he can’t deny that the Soldier was an integral element in advancing the objectives of one of history’s most notorious terrorist organizations.

To the government, and to the public, and hell, to just about _everyone_ at this point apart from Steve himself, the Winter Soldier is considered a highly dangerous assassin who should be imprisoned — at the very _least_ — and prosecuted for his crimes.

Steve can’t, _won’t_ allow the Soldier to be carted off by some unknown government agency that’s just as likely as not to be inundated with Hydra.

It’s just as Natasha had said: the best option for the Soldier is to get him cooperating. To get him to give them leverage to work with. If the Soldier can make himself a valuable resource by providing strategic intel about Hydra and its inner workings, it’s less likely that the government will attempt to drop him into a metaphorical black hole, or worse, eliminate him altogether.

The problem is that Steve’s never been good at _talking_. So he has no idea how he’s going to convince the Soldier — who has made it quite obvious that he doesn’t trust Steve — to allow him anywhere near him, short of Steve giving a direct order, that is.

He’s veritably certain that the Soldier will comply with orders.

But Steve doesn’t want to cement the Soldier’s likely perception of him as a handler any more than it probably already is. And he _definitely_ doesn’t want the Soldier putting him in the same category as his Hydra tormentors.

Which leaves him somewhat at an impasse, with no clue as to how to proceed.

“The best thing you can do is to just be upfront with him,” Sam had said. “Let him know what you’re doing, what you want him to do, and _why_. Even if he doesn’t _trust_ you, he’ll at least come to understand that you do what you _say_ you’re going to do. That consistency is a big deal. It’s where the foundation of trust begins.”

Now, as Steve stands just inside the closed door of the containment room, aware of the Soldier’s wary gaze locked on him from behind the dark tangles of his hair, Steve tries to work out what exactly he wants to say.

At length, he clears his throat, adopting a confident demeanor as he takes a few strides closer to Winter’s hunched form — unchanged from the last time Steve’d been here. The Soldier’s blue eyes  track him the entire way.

When he reaches a distance of about halfway across the room, Steve crouches down to avoid towering over Winter, Sam’s tinny voice informing him through the earpiece that the Soldier’s pulse is skyrocketing. “ _Be careful, Cap. We don’t know that he won’t choose fight over flight if he gets too worked up._ ”

“Hey,” Steve says softly, not needing Sam to tell him what he can clearly hear — that the Soldier’s breathing has sped up anxiously. “Hey Winter, it’s gonna be okay. I know you’re scared, and you must be feeling pretty bad right now because you haven’t been eating or drinking. We want to make you feel better. Get you some fluids, to start. Which we want to do by hooking you to an I.V. Will you let us… Will you cooperate?”

—

The Asset sits perfectly still in its containment cell.

It waits for what seems like a long time, though it’s difficult to be sure. Time seems to jump and skip around, the Asset’s vision wavering in and out as it fights to remain conscious.

It is not allowed to sleep without permission.

It doesn’t want to be put into the Box if it fails to remain awake.

Forced into the tiny, confined space, restrained and blindfolded, removed from all sensory input apart from the torment of being unable to shift even the tiniest bit to relieve the excruciating pain of cramping muscles.  

Or they might decide to shackle it into standing until the flesh shoulder pulls from its socket and the feet swell up and burn with an agony that feels like fire until it feels like nothing at all, and the Asset can no longer walk when they finally release it — even when ordered to comply and beaten mercilessly for failing.

It hasn’t had to be corrected in this way in a long time. But still, it remembers.

The body shivers and burns simultaneously, and the head thuds with throbbing pulses of pain which are not at all helped by the bright piercing light that bounces off of the extreme _white_ of the room —  floor, ceiling, and walls — burning into the Asset’s too-sensitive retinas.

Eventually, the door of his cell clicks with the sound of the locks disengaging, and the Asset’s new handler returns once more.

The Captain scrutinizes the Asset for a few moments, ascertaining whether it has moved from its position. It hasn’t, it knows. It doesn’t think the body can withstand the behavioral modification being disobedient will no doubt require.

It has already given reason for corrective modification, it knows, by instinctively backing away from the Captain earlier.

The Asset is _never_ to retreat from its handlers.

By some manner of fortune, though, the Captain seems satisfied with the Asset’s current status —  at least for the moment — and crosses the room with sure steps. He lowers himself to crouch face-to-face with the Asset, prudently keeping himself outside of arms’ reach.

The Asset averts its eyes.

It fights to contain its instinctive fear, keeping its face expressionless, though it can’t help the body’s racing heartbeat, its rapid breathing. It struggles to follow the Captain’s words as he begins to talk.

The Captain tells the Asset that he wants it to ‘feel better’. That it needs to be hooked up to a feeding tube.

The Asset fails to understand why the Captain is providing the explanation. The Asset has no bearing on what they can and will do to it. It is not — has never been — in a position to refuse. It does as it is told.

The Captain says, “Will you cooperate?”

The Asset knows the answer. There is only one, and it echoes silently through its brain: _Я готов отвечать_. Ready to comply.

It dips its aching head in a visible affirmation. ‘ _Yes’._

It will cooperate.

—

Steve studies the Soldier surreptitiously as he waits for Bruce to bring in the supplies needed to hook Winter to an intravenous line.

The scientist had been asked to weigh in on the situation as best he could. He’s dabbled in the medical field before, and both Steve and Sam preferred that he provide whatever insight he could offer alongside their limited medical knowledge.  

Bruce had tentatively agreed, though he’d made sure to iterate that he wasn’t medically trained, which meant that his knowledge was limited as well.

He’d come to the viewing room and scanned through what could be considered — if one was feeling _particularly_ imaginative —  the Soldier’s ‘medical’ files, which Tony had left displayed mid-air in holographic form.

The scientist had needed to take several breaks throughout, and Steve had watched him step away multiple times, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, drawing in deep, even breaths.

When he’d finally turned to Steve and Sam, jaw tight and eyes threaded with filaments of green, his countenance had settled somewhere between nausea and tightly controlled fury.

“I’ve never seen anything like that file,” he’d stated quietly, “and I’m not even halfway through it yet.”

He’d cleared his throat, drawing off his glasses and cleaning them carefully with the edge of his shirt. “I skipped over a lot of it,” the scientist said, “out of necessity, really. I can go over more of it after I...calm down a little.” He placed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

“I can tell you this: The Soldier is enhanced. He’s got a serum similar to yours, Steve, and the scientists who worked on him documented extensive information about his rate of healing under multiple stressors. He’s had just about every bone in his body broken at least once. They cut him. Burned, beat, and stabbed him. And then they did it all over again while he was starved, sleep deprived, bleeding out...and numerous other situations, just to see how they affected his baseline healing. That’s— That’s not even the half of it.”

Steve had done his best to school his expression, and Bruce had taken another deep breath into the horrified silence, holding it and then releasing it slowly before he’d glanced through the one-way glass, examining the Soldier with shrewd eyes.

“As for how to help him now...you should definitely check him for signs of withdrawal. A blood test would be ideal to confirm what he might be on, but from the looks of his file, Hydra regularly pumped him with a whole cocktail of drugs; Stimulants, anti-psychotics, benzodiazepines...you name it. They had him heavily medicated, even by _your_ standards, Steve, and the dosages they had him at would kill a normal human six times over. Since they obviously haven’t been around to dose him recently, he’s probably starting to experience withdrawal sickness.”

“Tell me what to look out for,” Steve’d requested, and Bruce had begun listing off symptoms:

Clammy skin; shivering or sweating; tremors; dilated pupils; nausea — though that last one might be difficult to determine with the mask in the way of the Soldier’s expressions. It’s another reason to get that contraption off of Winter’s face as soon as possible: if the Solder vomits, there’s nowhere for the sick to go. It could very likely suffocate him.

“Withdrawal also wreaks havoc on your mental state, Cap,” Sam had added. “So if he gets confused, or is slow to respond, that’s attributable to going off the drugs.”

Now, as Steve appraises the Soldier, he can definitely identify some of the signs Bruce had listed. Winter’s body trembles steadily, even as his forehead beads with sweat, strands of his dark hair sticking to his damp skin.  

His eyes, when Steve had managed a glance at them just before the Soldier had dropped his gaze to the floor, had been dark, the blue of his iris a thin ring of color encircling black, dilated pupils.

This close, Steve is also able to notice something he hadn’t before: Winter sways, just the barest amount, back and forth where he sits. It’s difficult to tell with the way the Soldier keeps his eyes averted, but Steve thinks they’re only at half-mast, and he wonders again about the last time the Soldier slept.

He’s about to ask, but the sound of the locks disengaging cuts him off, and he shifts slightly to be able to watch Bruce enter the room, even as he keeps the Soldier’s curled form in his peripherals.

The scientist carries a duffel bag, and pushes what looks like a tall metal pole on wheels ahead of him. He’s got his own earpiece in, keeping him connected to Sam, and is still wearing his white lab coat.

Bruce glances over just as the locks on the reinforced door re-engage and suddenly halts in place, expression going contrite. “Steve—” he begins just as Sam says through the earpiece, “ _Shit_. Steve he’s freaking out big time, man.”

Steve turns back to the Soldier to find he’s gone stiff as a board, eyes wide and sharply alert. His breathing, which Steve realizes had begun to settle, now rasps harshly from between the tiny slots of the mask.

“Winter,” Steve begins, and the Soldier’s gaze darts to Steve’s face, settling on his mouth as if he’s lip-reading. “It’s okay, you’re safe. No one's gonna hurt you.”

Much like before, the words do absolutely nothing to calm the Soldier and Steve tries to explain further, a feeling of desperation tugging at his stomach. “This is Bruce. He’s a doctor—” the Soldier flinches, a tiny aborted movement and Steve feels understanding slam into him like a ton of bricks.

 _Of course_ Winter is afraid.

He’s been experimented on and _tortured_ by Hydra ‘doctors’ for decades. Steve wants to curse in frustration. Why hadn’t he thought of this _before_ he managed to terrify the Soldier _again_?

“He’s here to help—” Steve says, words sounding hollow even to himself, and it's as far as he gets before the Soldier’s form abruptly slackens.

His body loses its extreme tension, and his breathing begins to slow. Sam, in Steve’s ear says, “Vitals returning to baseline. Pretty sure he’s checked out Steve.”

“Checked out?” Steve repeats hoarsely. He thinks he knows though as he looks into the Soldier’s eyes, vacant and empty. A textbook thousand-yard stare.

“Dissociation,” Bruce answers. “It’s a coping mechanism often exhibited by the severely traumatized.” He tugs at a panel of his white coat. “I should’ve realized...the coat, the equipment… they must have triggered him.”

Steve swallows. “What should we do?”

Bruce grimaces. “Normally, I’d suggest that we wait it out. Don’t touch him until he’s fully back with us. Dissociating can be a terrifying experience, especially if you come back to yourself and the situation has altered from the way it was before you ‘left’. But…” He sighs, running a hand through his curly, salt-and-pepper locks. “He’s also in a state where time is of the essence. He’s severely dehydrated, malnourished, and definitely going through withdrawal. He _needs_ medical attention. There’s really no _good_ choice here.”

Steve studies Winter’s face, smooth and emotionless above the mask. He seems perfectly calm, now — if about as emotive as a doll.

“Maybe,” he says, “It would be easier if we got this over with while he’s...separated from it. Maybe it would be less traumatic for him.”

“That’s a tough thing to call, Steve,” Sam says. “You might end up doing more harm than good.”

Steve regards the Soldier.

Winter blinks slowly, breathes evenly.

“Winter,” Steve says finally, voice low, “can you hear me?”

—

“ _Can you hear me?_ ” the Captain asks.

The sound swims slowly to the Asset’s ears; dim, as if the canals are full of cotton. The Asset blinks. The body feels heavy, weighted down. Movement is slow and difficult.

The Asset sinks deeper into the quiet place inside itself.

The Captain continues to converse with his partners; the doctor, and whoever presumably sits on the other side of the glass window that looks into the cell. The words are far away and unimportant.

The Asset doesn’t need to concern itself. There are no orders to follow. No directives, no commands. The Asset floats in nothingness.

Then, “Winter.”

The Asset responds to its Captain-assigned codename. It tilts its head slightly, drags the eyes back to the Captain’s lips. The Captain is issuing a directive.

“—turn a little bit for me? I want to take off the cuffs.”

—

Steve waits to see if Winter will acknowledge his request. The Soldier had seemed to respond to Steve’s voice, tilting his head and tracking Steve’s lips as he’d spoken. Now Steve waits, and after a slow moment, the Soldier blinks heavily and turns, mechanically offering Steve his back and access to his still-cuffed wrists.

It has to be extremely painful, Steve thinks, for Winter to have his injured right arm locked into such an unforgiving position.

He wishes he’d thought to take the restraints off when the Soldier was still unconscious.

Wishes he’d never let Nat put them on in the first place.

Oddly though, the Soldier gives no indication of pain. Before, in Hydra’s warehouse, there had been little signs — small hitches of breath, a minutely furrowed brow —when the Soldier had been forced to use the injured arm.

Now though, the Soldier doesn’t even flinch when Steve is forced to shift his arms in order to undo the cuffs.

When Steve pulls the reinforced restraints away, the Soldier keeps his hands fixed where they are. Doesn’t move at all. After a moment waiting for the Soldier to relax, Steve realizes that he’s _not going to,_ and gently presses his fingers to Winter’s wrists, indicating that the Soldier has the freedom to move. After a long frozen moment, the tension seeps from the limbs and Winter allows them to fall to his sides.

“There you go,” Steve murmurs. “I hope that feels better. I’m sorry it took so long to get those off. I know it must have hurt to stay in that position.”

The Soldier stares blankly past Steve’s left shoulder, not even the tiniest flicker of recognition in his gaze, and Steve sighs.

Back at the Hydra facility, the Soldier had been so attentive. He’d stayed by Steve’s side, vigilant and helpful. Now, though, all that careful regard has vanished. A small, traitorous part of Steve wonders if it had all been an act. An attempt to gain Steve’s trust, like Natasha had said.

But, ‘ _No’_. Steve firmly pushes away the doubt.

The Soldier is _sick_ , and he’s understandably afraid. But he’s been cooperating.

Steve just needs to be patient.

“We’re gonna attach the I.V. line now,” he tells Winter’s empty gaze. “It’s just fluids, but it should help you to start feeling better pretty soon.”

He motions for Bruce to get started, the scientist approaching with caution. He may as well as not even be in the room for all the Soldier reacts to him this time.

It takes only a few moments to get Winter hooked to the bag, the Soldier offering his arm when Bruce reaches for him, silent and expressionless, not even flinching as the needle sinks into his flesh. Bruce tapes off the entry point, keeping the needle secure and the Soldier lets his arm return limply to his side when the scientist releases him.

“Okay,” Steve says into the silence of the room, “Okay, Winter. We’ll let that sit for a while.”

 

—

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

✪★ Ch. 10 ★✪ 

 

“Steve,” Sam says when he renters the viewing room a few minutes later, “When was the last time you saw the Soldier sleep?”

Steve glances through the glass — looks at the Soldier’s limp, unmoving form, remembers the dark circles deep like bruises beneath blue eyes, the barely-perceptible weaving of his body, even as he stayed seated.

“I haven’t seen him sleep,” Steve says. “Not even when we were in that Hydra base. He was always awake.”

Sam’s mouth twists, his brows furrowing into a dark scowl. “So he’s _sleep_ _deprived_.  On top of everything else. I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before. There’s the drugs, yeah. But sleep deprivation can account for a huge part of why he’s so worn down. He’s literally _exhausted_. We gotta get him to sleep, Steve.”

“The question is,” Bruce adds unhappily, “ _why_ isn’t he sleeping? His body is certainly at a point where it’s desperate for it. And any stimulants Hydra dosed him with are definitely out of his system by now.”

“He’s _keeping_ himself awake,” Steve says. “But why would he do that? He’s torturing himself. Is he trying to make us… what? Feel bad for him?”

Even as he says it, Steve knows that can’t be right. It doesn’t fit with the Soldier’s behavior thus far.

If anything, Winter’s been doing everything in his power to _avoid_ pain, or retaliation, or even making Steve _upset_. Steve thinks about the way the Soldier had scrambled away from him earlier. The Soldier had been terrified of what Steve might do. Is _still_ terrified. And even so, he’s worked to cooperate with everything Steve’s asked of him.

“I don’t think so,” Sam says, verbally concurring with Steve’s thoughts. “I think it’s much simpler than that. From what Bruce has said, the Soldier's file is a bona fide _encyclopedia_ of torture methods. And we already know that Hydra employed sadistic bastards. If they kept him frozen between missions and on stimulants during the times while he was thawed, it could just be that they didn’t _let_ him sleep. And now that he’s with us, he’s sticking to those Hydra-instilled protocols.”

“He doesn’t think to sleep,” Bruce says slowly. “Or maybe it’s more like—”

“He thinks he’s not _allowed,”_ Steve finishes _._

“Goddamned Hydra-scum _assholes_ ,” Sam swears.

Bruce’s lips tilt in a humorless smile. “I’m sorry, Steve. I should have noticed it sooner.”

“That’s not on you,” Steve responds quickly. “I was with him for days. I should have realized what was going on a long time ago.”

“We all should have caught it,” Sam says. “It’s on all of us. Now we need to decide how to fix it.”

—

_The Asset stumbles unsteadily from its cryochamber._

_The legs are weak and it buckles at the knees, dropping forward onto all fours, body shuddering with cold. Voices bark orders, sharp with command but muffled and hazy to the Asset’s ears._

_Hands grip tightly around the flesh arm, jerking the Asset roughly to its feet._

_It is half propelled, half dragged into a white tiled area. A rusty drain sits inset into the flooring, and the Asset is released to stand shakily above it._

_It blinks rapidly against the bright lighting, glaring off the white surfaces, pouring down from numerous panels above._

_It doesn’t know where it is, or who — w_ hat. _It knows not to ask questions, though. Knows to obey. To follow orders. It stays where it has been put._

_Everything hurts._

_The body_ aches _with bone-deep chill. The flesh feels raw, like an open wound. Even the temperature of the air causes the skin to burn from its relative heat_ — _much warmer than the frozen atmosphere within the cryotube._

_The body jerks instinctively as a jet of freezing water suddenly slams into the Asset’s torso. The breath is punched from its lungs with the force of the stream, and the Asset chokes, struggling to draw in lungfuls of air._

_The water burns_ — _at first hot against its much cooler flesh, and then cold again. Freezing enough to have the Asset’s teeth chattering, its limbs quaking with the chill, but still warmer than it had been coming out of the cryochamber._

_The water shuts off. The Asset stands, dripping and shivering. It waits for a command._

The Asset blinks. The blinding white light remains the same, but the room is different. It was relocated, it remembers. Appropriated by a new set of handlers.

Movement to its right has the Asset turning its throbbing head, shifting its gaze to take in both the Captain and the fact that a new feature has been added to its cell.  

A mattress sits upon the floor, pushed up into the corner of the room directly across from the mirrored window, The Captain is smoothing a blanket over its surface, but looks up as the weight of the Asset’s gaze falls upon him.

The Asset averts its eyes. Stares at the mattress.

There is no frame for the cushion. Nowhere for restraints to be fastened. The fact that it is soft at all is...unusual. The handlers generally prefer the Asset prone on a metal table. The smooth surface makes it easier to clean up afterward, and the solid frame allows for the apparatus to be bolted to the floor and for the attachment of restraints where necessary.

Perhaps these new handlers intend to utilize a different method to keep the Asset where they want it.

Sometimes its handlers have given it an injection in place of restraints. When that needle pricks its skin, the limbs are no longer under the Asset’s control. It becomes be unable to move, to speak, or use its vocal cords to make any sounds. When the handlers make the Asset like this, all of the screaming stays inside its head.

The doctors used this method a lot — mostly during data-collection procedures. They liked the Asset docile and quiet, but still alert, still able to respond to the things they were doing.

  _‘It makes the data so much more...authentic.’_

 It makes sense that these new handlers will want to do their own data collecting. The urge to scream scrapes at the back of the Asset’s throat. It chokes it back down.

“Hey,” the Captain says. “Hey, bud, you with me?”

The Asset nods, shallowly.

“I’ve noticed that you haven’t been sleeping,” the Captain says, watching the Asset closely. “Since we were in that Hydra base, I never saw you sleep.”

The Asset does not sleep without permission.

  _‘Look alive Asset. You can sleep when you’re in the ice.’_

The Asset shudders. Blinks. The eyes are raw with exhaustion. They burn with the desire to close. To stay closed.

“We want you to sleep,” says the Captain, and the Asset wonders if it is hearing things. “You need rest in order to recover. It’s— It’s important.”

The Asset shakes its head dizzily. Confusion clouds its thoughts.  Sleep is a luxury, a reward. The times it’s been permitted have been rare.

Sometimes, when the mission dragged out for an especially long time, the Asset’s handlers would refrain from punishing it when the body’s exhaustion shut it down involuntarily.

Or, if it had been especially good, they would permit it to doze in a corner of the truck during transport back to base.

But neither of those scenarios apply here. The Asset has not yet reached the limit wherein the body will initiate an involuntary shutdown, and it hasn’t been assigned a mission through which it can display any excellence.

Instead, the Captain is telling the Asset to sleep simply for reason of... _comfort_.

The Asset swallows apprehensively.

Perhaps this is a test.

Its heart sinks. It almost never performs adequately when the handlers present it with unfamiliar tests.

The Asset tries to think, its brain feeling sluggish and dull. In this case, there are two possible courses of action: Either the Asset can do as it’s been told, or it can disobey the Captain’s directive.

If the Asset does as it’s told, it is in essence, accepting a reward that it hasn’t earned. The Asset doesn’t _deserve_ rewards. A weapon does not get rewarded for doing its job. Success is recompense enough. Attempting to take what does not belong to it results in severe punishment. The Asset must never forget its place.

On the other hand, if the Asset _doesn’t_ do as it’s been told, it is being disobedient. Disobedience garners its own punishment, both swift and grievously severe.

The Asset falters, anxious and indecisive, but when the Captain says, “Come rest,” its hesitance splinters under the weight of the direct order. It shuffles over to the mattress, dragging alongside it the metal pole supporting the solution being pumped into its veins.

The Captain slides back as the Asset approaches, keeping a healthy distance between them and the Asset can only be grateful for it. The farther away the handlers keep, the less likely the Asset is to be struck — or kicked, or grabbed.

—

Steve watches the Soldier crawl over to the makeshift bed, dragging his intravenous line with him. The assassin keeps his head low, and although his body moves with all the grace and power of a predator, he holds himself tense, as if he is afraid that Steve will pounce on him at any moment.

He settles stiffly onto the mattress, keeping his flesh arm straight so as not to disturb the needle still feeding into his veins, and his eyes dart anxiously across the ceiling, never settling in one place. His metal hand digs into the bedding beneath his body. He’s the picture of unease.

Steve doubts anything he says will comfort the Soldier. Still he tells the rigid assassin, “Go ahead and get some rest,” as he backs away. Heads for the exit.  

The door closes on the sight of the Winter Soldier, staring blankly up at the ceiling, breathing quickly through the slits in his mask, body tense and apprehensive.

—

Eventually, the Soldier cannot help but to sleep.

After nearly an hour spent  blinking slowly up at the ceiling, he finally succumbs to his body’s need, his blue eyes fluttering shut and staying that way.

Steve, still not at a hundred percent himself, decides this is as good a time as any to try and grab some shuteye. The clock at the bottom corner of one of the camera screens shows that it’s nearing midnight.

JARVIS affirms that he will continue to monitor the Soldier and alert them if the situation deems it necessary, leaving Steve and Sam free to head off to their respective beds, and Bruce to his lab.

Steve shovels down a quick meal of three cold-cut sandwiches, brushes his teeth and slides wearily between cool sheets, not realizing just how tired he is until his head hits his pillow.

Seven hours later, he’s back in the observation room with a mug of steaming coffee, asking JARVIS for a status report on the Soldier.

“The Soldier has experienced four interrupted sleep cycles, Captain,” the AI informs him. “About one every ninety minutes.”

“That’d be just about every time he reaches REM sleep,” Sam says on a yawn as he joins Steve in the room. “Had JARVIS message me when you started to head down here,” he says to Steve’s raised brow. “Didn’t want you to have to deal with this alone.”

Steve feels a rush of affection for the dark-skinned man. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Thank me by giving me some of that coffee,” Sam grumbles. “I know you always bring extra.”

Steve motions to the travel mug he’d indeed brought with him, and Sam hums in appreciation. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

“What were you saying about his...rim sleep?”

“REM,” Sam clarifies. “It stands for Rapid Eye Movement, and it’s the period of sleep where you typically experience dreams. Or nightmares.” He glances into the containment room where the Soldier appears to still be asleep. “He having nightmares, JARVIS?”

“Elevated heart rate and breathing patterns along with heightened perspiration and abrupt waking are all consistent with symptoms of nightmares,” JARVIS responds. “Therefore, I would conclude that the Soldier has experienced at least four such episodes within the last seven hours.”

Sam takes a sip of his coffee. “Well. That’s not great news. So much for getting a handle on his sleep dep.”

There’s a moment of silence between them and then Sam sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, well if he’s not sleeping, let’s try to get some answers out of him at least. We need to replace that bag too.” He nods to the drained I.V. solution. “Keep him hydrated and flushing out whatever drug cocktail he’s recovering from. And we should also keep any periods of questioning short. I’m not really comfortable interrogating a man who looks like he’s at death’s door, I don’t care what kind of valuable intel he’s got locked in his head.”

“Don’t want to _interrogate_ him at all,” Steve says, brow slightly furrowed. “But Natasha was right. He’s better off in our hands than the government’s, and if he’s giving us answers it’s less likely they’ll try to dump him into a dark pit somewhere and forget about him.”

—

When Steve enters the containment room, one glance over the Soldier’s sleeping form is enough to determine that the man’s state is anything but peaceful. The Hydra-forged assassin is curled onto his side, flesh arm still extended to prevent the IV feed from crimping. Above the mask his brows are knitted together, forehead covered in a thin layer of perspiration. His breathing is elevated, just as JARVIS had indicated having previously detected, and his metal arm whirrs, hand drawing into a fist just as his body jerks sharply and his eyes shoot open on a ragged indrawn breath.

The Soldier’s gaze darts unseeingly about the room before it catches on Steve and he scrambles upright. He positions himself so that his back is to the wall, legs folded beneath him, hands open and resting on his thighs, eyes attentively fixed on Steve’s collarbone. He looks, Steve thinks, as if he’s awaiting orders.

In fact, Steve believes that’s _exactly_ what the Soldier is doing.

Steve swallows the bitter tinge at the back of his throat and steps further into the room, stopping at about the halfway point as he’d done before. Each step closer to the Soldier seems to ratchet the tension in the assassin’s frame even tighter.

“Hey, Winter,” he says, softly. “I’m gonna need your cooperation for a couple of things this morning.”

The Soldier keeps his gaze fixed on Steve’s collarbone, silent and unmoving, and Steve forges on.

“First,” he says, indicating the solution bag in his left hand, “I’m going to renew your IV fluids so you can stay hydrated. I won't—” he falters. “It’s not going to hurt. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He wets his lips, fighting the urge to fidget uncomfortably at the Soldier’s lack of any visible response. “Do you… understand?” he asks, finally.

The Soldier dips his head in a shallow nod, responding to the direct question immediately. _‘Yes.’_

“Okay,” Steve nods himself. “The second thing is, I need you to answer some questions. Details about… about your time with Hydra. We want to help you. Whatever you can tell us will make that easier.”

The Soldier stares forward and Steve asks again, “Do you understand?”

Another shallow nod. ‘ _Yes.’_

“Will you cooperate?”

The Soldier breathes, nods ‘ _Yes’_ , draws in tightly to himself as Steve steps forward. “Good. That’s good, Winter.”

He moves carefully to begin replacing the empty bag with the new solution, attentively going through the steps just as Sam had walked him through earlier. 

 _“Don’t you think it would be better if you did it?”_ he’d asked the pararescue while Sam was explaining it.

Sam shook his head. _“Nah, man,”_ he’d answered. _“I don’t want to overwhelm him. Best he deals with just you for now. At least until he seems a little more stable. Besides,”_ here he’d grinned, teeth gleaming white against the dark tone of his skin, _“you’re never too old to learn something_  

With his eidetic memory it is easy enough to remember the procedure, and Steve breezes through the steps, momentarily freezing only when the Soldier flinches at the _snap_ that cuts through the room as Steve removes the pair of medical gloves he’d donned at the start.   

“Easy,” Steve murmurs as he steps away, wadding the gloves into a crumpled ball and stuffing them into a pocket. “Sorry, bud. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The Soldier lets out a shaky breath, raising his metal hand to slowly push a clump of sweaty hair away from his forehead before lowering the hand just as slowly to rest back in his lap.

“Okay,” Steve says, retrieving the pad of paper and pencil he’d brought into the room along with the replacement IV bag. “Let’s get on with the second part of our agenda.”

He lowers himself so that he is seated before the Soldier, but keeps a good five or six feet of space between them. The pad of paper he lays flat on the floor, placing the pencil on top.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” he says. “You can use this pencil and paper to write down your answers.”

He hesitates then, uncomfortable with what he needs to say next before he steals himself and gets on with it.

“If at any time you attempt to harm either yourself or me with these instruments, you will be stopped.” He indicates the ventilation shafts near the ceiling. “Those vents carry gas strong enough to knock even me unconscious within seconds. So even assuming you manage to incapacitate me, you still won’t have a chance of escaping this room.” He pauses, watching the Soldier who continues to stare fixedly at his collarbone. “We aren’t currently treating you as a hostile, and we don’t want to. Please don’t make us have to.”

The Soldier waits, and after another moment Steve voices the request, “Will you cooperate?”

_‘Yes.’_

 

—

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

★ **Ch. 11** ✪

 

 

The Captain slides the paper and pencil across the space between them.

“I want to start with how you’re feeling,” the handler says. “You’ve got a lot of bruising, and I saw earlier that your shoulder has some swelling. We’re hoping to get you some nutrients soon to accelerate your healing factor, but is there anything else that’s bothering you? Anything that’s particularly painful?”

Everything. Everywhere hurts. The head throbs and the flesh shoulder maintains a continuous stabbing, vicious ache. The metal arm tears at the spine and ribs, and even the throat is dry and raw when the Asset attempts to swallow.

But.

The Asset does not report pain.

The Asset does not _respond to_ pain, unless they tell it to.

There are only two parameters by which to identify the Asset’s status: functional and non-functional.

_”Sir,” the young Hydra recruit says, “the Asset has sustained damage. He’s hurt, Sir.”_

_The Handler scoffs, stopping in his tracks and turning from where he’d been taking lead in heading for the extraction point. He levels a sour expression at the newest initiate on the task force, and both the Asset and the new initiate are forced to halt as well._

_“The Asset,” the Handler enunciates clearly, “is a_ weapon _. It has enhanced healing capabilities and stamina. It doesn’t ‘hurt’.”_

_The new initiate squares his jaw, his blond hair glinting faintly in a beam of moonlight._

_The Asset’s eyes catch on the glimmer. It tilts its head to better take in the sight._

_“Sir,” the new initiate persists, “What if_ — _There’s a lot of blood, Sir.”_

_The Handler’s irritated scowl goes darker. He turns to the Asset, still scowling. “Asset, report,”  he demands, eyes roving over the Asset’s form, sliding over the small pool of blood gathering around its tactical boots._

_“Lacerated abdomen,” the Asset states immediately. “Blood loss: moderate. Grade three tarsal sprain, fractured ribs, sporadic subcutaneous hematomas consistent with blunt-force trauma_ — _”_

 _“Report_ functionality _status,” the Handler interrupts, waving his hand dismissively at the rest of the report._

_“The Asset is functional,” the Asset says. “It is ready to comply.”_

_“You see,” the Handler bites out, turning back to the new recruit. “It’s fine. It’ll be good as new in a few hours, which is more than I can say about you if you decide to question me again. Do that, and I’m going to make sure you become the target for the Asset’s next weapons testing exercise.”_

“Winter?”

The Asset blinks, pulling it’s focus back into the reinforced room where the door is locked and the lights make everything searingly bright.

The Captain is still waiting for a status report.

It writes ‘ _Asset_ _functional_ ’ on the paper, and the Captain stares at the words for a period of time much longer than it must take for him to read them, expression inscrutable.

For a moment, the Asset wonders if it’s done something wrong. Its muscles tense up, an instinctive reaction as it waits for a blow, but the handler only says, “Okay,” after an inordinately long period of silence, and they move on.

—

So. The Soldier doesn’t acknowledge being in pain — either because he _can’t,_ or simply because he _won’t,_ due to not having an over-abundance of trust in what he most certainly views as his captors, handler status aside. Either possibility is as likely as the other right now and Steve can’t bring himself to pressure the Soldier into revealing which one it is.

In any case, there’s not much they can do about the pain until they can come up with an appropriate dosage of painkillers that can be effective on his physiology, while at the same time avoid complicating the drug withdrawal he’s undergoing.

So Steve switches tracks, starting with something he considers to be simple enough for the Soldier to answer. “How long have you been working for Hydra?”

The Soldier puts pencil to paper. His writing is shaky and childlike — a barely legible scrawl that takes him a long time to scratch out using his metal hand.

 _‘Data unknown,’_ the page reads.

Steve frowns. “What does that mean—you don’t know? Why—how can you not know?”

 _‘Sorry,’_ the Soldier writes looking cowed. He underlines it and then points back to the first sentence. _‘Sorry, data unknown.’_

“Where are you from?” Steve tries. “Where did they recruit you?”

The Soldier shakily touches the page. _‘Data unknown.’_

Steve fights a scowl and takes a breath. “You said you would cooperate,” he reminds the Soldier, keeping his tone even. “We can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.”

“ _Careful Cap,”_ Sam murmurs in his ear. “ _His vitals are starting to climb_.”

The Soldier stares mutely down at his crude handwriting and Steve reminds himself that he’d believed this man to be a victim. That the Soldier has endured horrific things at Hydra’s hand — whether he’d initially volunteered or not. That he’s sleep-deprived and in pain and malnourished.

And he’s been forcibly cut off from speaking, leaving his methods of communication extremely limited.

Steve reminds himself to be _patient_.

“The mask,” he finally says. “It needs to come off. Do you know how to remove it?”

‘ _Biometric signature required,’_ the Soldier writes immediately, almost _eagerly,_ as if he’s trying to prove his willingness to cooperate.

“Whose?” Steve asks.

_‘Handlers: Director Alexander Pierce, Brock Rumlow. Doctors: Lucius Beck, Amanda Locke’._

“Pierce is dead,” Steve says, watching the Soldier carefully. If he has loyalties to Hydra, this news could trigger a telling reaction.

But the Soldier doesn’t react in the manner of someone who’s been informed of an esteemed leader’s death.  There is no shock, no hint of sadness or anger. Steve might as well have mentioned the weather forecast for all the reaction he gets.

“Rumlow is in a coma,” Steve continues after a moment. “I don’t know about the doctors. Maybe we can track one of them down. Get them to get that mask off of you.”

 _These_ words garner a reaction, swift and visceral.

The Soldier pales at the suggestion, skin going milk-white, eyes growing wide and terrified. His breath wheezes, high-pitched and sharp behind the mask, and the metal arm recalibrates, pencil snapping suddenly within a too-tight grip.

Steve reaches out, instinctively seeking to comfort, and the Soldier rears back, flinching violently away from the contact.

“Woah, there. Easy, Winter,” Steve says, raising his hands emptily. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested— We’ll find another way. Tony Stark is looking into it, okay? We’ll figure it out. Breathe, Winter.”

The Soldier sucks in shuddery breaths, working even in the midst of his panic to follow Steve’s direction, and Steve murmurs soft platitudes, waiting for the Soldier to reach a calmer state.

At length, the Soldier’s breathing evens out and his eyes loose the overly-terrified sheen induced by Steve’s reckless, unthinking words. The assassin sags slightly, looking ragged and worn out, and Steve decides that it’s time for a break.

“Rest,” he tells the Soldier, gathering up the pencil pieces and the pad of paper. “Try to sleep, if you can.”

The Soldier’s eyes listlessly track Steve’s progress as he heads back out of the containment room. He shuts the door firmly behind him.

—

Tony’s waiting for him when he returns to the viewing room.

His eyes are bloodshot — from lack of sleep or alcohol or both — and he sways slightly where he stands. His expression is vicious. Furious.

“Tony,” Steve asks, “What’s going on? What happened?”

Tony chuckles darkly, face a grimace of fake humor. “What happened?” he parrots. “What _happened_ , Cap, is that I found out your little assassin pity-project _murdered_ my parents.”

Steve feels a pit of dread uncoil in his stomach.

“You don’t look very surprised,” Tony says, eyes dark and cutting and — behind all that fury — _pleading_. “Tell me you didn’t know, Cap.”

“Zola hinted at the possibility,” Steve admits. “At Camp Leigh. He intimated that Hydra had Howard terminated. But I —” he falters for a moment. “I didn’t know it was him — the Soldier — specifically.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Tony spits. “Who the _fuck_ else could it have been, huh?”

He chucks something small and rectangular at Steve’s head and Steve catches it reflexively, never taking his eyes off the genius engineer’s anguished face.

“I ought to ship him off myself. Send him right to the authorities wrapped in a neat little bow.”

“Tony, no, you _can't_ do that,” Steve protests, automatically.

“Why the hell not? Tell me, why the _fuck_ can’t I do that, huh, Cap?” Tony rages. “He killed my _mom_ ,” the engineer chokes out when Steve doesn’t answer. “Killed her in cold blood. She was— She was _alive_ after the crash and he—”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve says, softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a growl and turns abruptly, stalking quickly from the room, weaving like a blind man.

Steve starts to go after him, but Sam speaks up from the corner Steve had completely forgotten he was occupying. “Better let him go, Steve,” the counselor says. “Nothing you say now is gonna reach him. Give him some time.”

Steve stares out into the empty hallway, dejected and guilty, and eventually dips his head in a tight nod. He looks down at the small piece of plastic still clutched in his hand that Tony had thrown at him, and realizes that it’s a tiny hard-drive.

Numbly, he walks over to one of the monitors with a port for him to connect the drive and clicks it in to place.

It’s a set of schematics; diagrams and data all concerning the mask attached to the Soldier’s face. There are various notes, meticulously recorded, and a series of code that means nothing to Steve in its raw form but could be— It could be—

“JARVIS,” Steve says, shakily, “Is this—?”

“Sir has discovered a method for the deactivation and removal of the Winter Soldier’s mask,” JARVIS answers promptly. “While Sir is, at this time, blocking all calls, he has instructed me to assist you with this procedure whenever you deem it to be the appropriate time.”

Steve finds himself overwhelmed at Tony’s benevolence. Even in the midst of his suffering, the genius found it in himself to provide aid to the Winter Soldier, the man who had assassinated his family.

Steve doesn’t know how far Tony’s goodwill will stretch, but he’s grateful for what he can get.

The Soldier is in desperate need of sustenance, and Hydra-loyal assassin or no, Steve can’t bring himself to wait any longer to provide the man with basic human necessities.

“Let me go in and explain things to him,” he tells JARVIS. “Then I’ll give you the word to deactivate it.

“Of course, Captain.”

The Soldier pushes himself wearily into a seated position when Steve reenters the containment room. His body trembles minutely, but Steve thinks it may be more out of sheer exhaustion than fear at this point.

“We can take it off,” Steve says, wasting no time. “The mask. Tony figured out the deactivation codes.”

The Soldier stares silently ahead.

“Once it’s off,” Steve continues, undeterred, “we can take the I.V. out, and begin giving you food and water. You’ll start feeling much better. Your injuries should heal up much more quickly too.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond, and Steve revisits his suspicion that the assassin has been conditioned to show no preference toward his treatment.

Hydra seems to have closely controlled every manner of the Soldier’s behavior — as much as possible, at any rate. Steve remembers the man’s shakily written ‘ _Asset Functional’_. There’d been nothing there to indicate the amount pain he was certainly in, no request for aid or relief.

Steve strengthens his resolve to provide both things to the Soldier. There is no reason the man needs to be only ‘functional’ when they question him for more information about Hydra’s inner workings.

He moves to crouch before the Soldier. “Winter,” he asks gently, “Do you understand?”

Bloodshot blue eyes blink heavily and the Soldier nods. ‘ _Yes.’_

“Okay,” Steve nods, himself. “Good. That’s good. I’m gonna deactivate it now.”

He waits for a moment, and when the Soldier simply sits motionless, he clears his throat.

“Alright, JARVIS. Go ahead and put in the codes.”

“Inputting deactivation code,” JARVIS responds, congenially.

The Soldier straightens sharply at the disembodied voice, eyes darting about the room, looking for its source.

“It’s okay, Winter,” Steve says. “It’s only Tony’s A.I. He’s a computer system. He helps to run the building.”

The information does little to calm the Soldier, who sits, stiffly trembling as a quiet electronic ding and a small click sound from the mask.

There is a drawn-out pause.

The Soldier keeps his hands in his lap. He makes no move to remove the contraption from his face and Steve frowns faintly.

“JARVIS, it’s—the mask—it’s deactivated? It can be taken off now?”

“Indeed, Captain.”

Steve nods, watching the Soldier. “Go ahead then, Winter,” he tells the immobile assassin. “You can take it off.”

The Soldier’s hands curl into fists in his lap. His metal arm recalibrates and his shoulders tighten. After a long moment, he shakes his head in the tiniest motion, and Steve recognizes he’s come up against yet another thing that the Soldier was forbidden from doing.

He lets out a slow, controlled breath and raises his own hands carefully.

“Let me— I’ll do it,” he says. “Okay?”

The Soldier stays tense, but cants his head ever so slightly in Steve’s direction.

It’s as much permission as he’s likely to get, Steve thinks. If _permission_ is even the right word.

More likely, the Soldier is simply making a visible show of submission toward what Steve has already identified as his goal — getting that mask off.

“Right,” Steve says softly, reaching slowly forward. “Okay, buddy, here we go.”

 

—

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

✪ **Ch. 12** ★

 

“Breathe.”

Steve struggles, per Sam’s direction, to drag in even breaths. He feels like he’s trapped in his old body, struggling with his asthma, fighting to keep his lungs from completely cutting off his air supply.

He fights the overwhelming urge to look back into the containment room. To stare at the blank-faced man inside who sits there docilely, waiting for his handlers to tell him what to do. To give him orders. To hurt him. Blue eyes gazing fixedly at nothing.

Blue eyes that Steve’d told himself he didn’t recognize.

But he’d been _wrong_.

He’d been completely wrong.

_“Bucky?” Steve breathes, horrified shock skittering down his spine, cold as ice. The mask creaks warningly in his suddenly too-tight grip._

_It_ is _him. It’s_ Bucky _. The whole time_ —’the whole time,’ _his mind shrieks. Steve’s stomach roils. His heart clenches with anguished grief, a terrible sort of awe rushing through him._

_In rapid fire, Steve begins to catalogue all of the things he suddenly recognizes in the man before him. The shape of his brows; the sweep of his lashes; the tiniest sliver of a scar at the base of his right thumb, where he’d cut himself on broken glass as a child. And always: the shape and color of his eyes. How could he have missed these things?_

_Winter_ — _the Soldier_ —Bucky _stares blankly toward him, eyes fastened somewhere over Steve’s left shoulder._

_“Negative,” he rasps in response to Steve’s breathless exclamation, voice rough from disuse. “Asset codenamed: Winter Soldier.”_

_Steve makes a noise, choked and broken and the Soldier’s_ — Bucky’s — _eyes dart quickly over his face, expression growing nervous at whatever he sees displayed there._

 _“_ No _,” Steve snarls viciously, and Bucky tenses as if preparing himself for a blow. “You have a_ name _. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re my_ — _my_ best friend.”

“Steve,” _he hears a voice say urgently into his earpiece_ , “you’re compromised. You need to get out of there.” _Distantly he registers that it is Natasha, not Sam, who is speaking to him._

 _“I can’t_ —” _Steve gasps. “I c-can’t—”_

 _“_ You’re panicking,” _her voice informs him cooly. “_ And you’re scaring him.”

 _Steve takes in Bucky’s wide eyes, his uneasy countenance, and jerks to his feet, stumbling gracelessly for the door._  

Both Sam and Natasha were waiting for him in the observation room.

“Sam,” Steve stammers now, “Sam, it’s him it’s— _Bucky_. It’s been Bucky _all along_.”

“Steve,” says Sam steadily. “You need to calm down. I realize that you’ve had a shock, but shock can make you see all kinds of things. I’m not saying that he doesn’t look like your friend—”

“It’s _him_ ,” Steve asserts, still sucking in air, still reeling. “I know him. I _know_ _him_ , Sam.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam asks. “You said he died. That you _saw_ him die seventy years ago.”

“It’s him,” Natasha cuts in before Steve can start screaming.

She drops a folder onto the table in the middle of the room. Russian lettering adorns the cover much like the file Steve’d paged through in the abandoned Hydra facility. Natasha flips it open.

Clipped to the inside cover is a small photograph — Bucky in his army uniform, hat firmly on his head, a half-smile curving his parted lips.  

“Zola,” Steve says faintly, sinking down into a chair. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43. Zola experimented on him.” He glances back into the containment room, gaze helplessly drawn to the man inside now that he knows who he _is_ . “Whatever Zola did must have helped Bucky to survive the fall. They must have _found_ him.”

“It’s not your fault, Steve,” Natasha states, intuitively sensing where his thoughts are heading.

“He doesn’t know me,” Steve says, horror roiling in his stomach, building higher with each thought, each new revelation. “He doesn’t even know _himself_. How is that—? Why—?”

“Steve,” Natasha says firmly, “You’re spiraling. This isn’t helping anybody. You want to help him, you’ve got to calm down. _Shut it down_ , Steve.”

Steve wrenches his gaze away from Bucky, Natasha’s words and severe tone finally reaching through his stupor. He shakes his head, dragging in a deep shuddery breath and pushing all of his horrified anguish down into a locked mental compartment.

Natasha’s right, Bucky needs him right now. He can’t afford to fall apart.

—

“I told you that the Winter Soldier has been accredited with over a dozen assassinations in the last fifty years,” Natasha says, standing at the observation window, peering inside. “But I couldn’t be sure that it was the same man. Not until I read that file.”

Steve stares down at the contents of the file spread across the table in front of him.

“When I was a child,” Natasha continues lowly, “the Winter Soldier was brought in to perfect our training. I met him maybe six times over the course of ten years, and then the next time I saw him after that was during that mission in Odessa. He looked—moved, acted—the same. Every time I saw him. I thought he must be a very good copy. He was masked most of the time, and he never seemed to remember any of our previous meetings.”

She glances briefly over at Steve. “But now I know. It’s always been him.”

“The chair,” Steve asks, staring down at a greyed-out photograph of the macabre machine. “What does it do?”

“They call it a ‘mind wipe’,” Natasha says. “It uses electrical current to target specific areas in his brain, and then it destroys the memories stored there.”

“Shit,” Sam swears. “Holy shit. That’s...insane.”

Steve takes a centering breath. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says, gaze flickering up to Natasha’s form — stood with her back to the room, staring into the containment cell.. “How could they erase his memories and still keep his ability to remember all the protocols Hydra enforced upon him? He still acts within the parameters they set: avoids eye-contact, obeys orders from those he considers his superiors, keeps his movement and actions non-threatening… How would he remember to do those things? He knows the identities of his current handlers, the scientists that experimented on him, but he doesn’t know his own name.”

“Hydra had him for a good twenty years before he became a fully-functioning asset,” Natasha says. “They burned out his past during those years. All they would have to do once they had a clean slate was not wipe him when they instilled behavioral protocols. If something triggered an undesired reaction or memory, they would simply wipe that experience and avoid triggering it again in the future. They could be very specific in what they allowed him to keep: weapons training, combat exercises, behavioral responses, punishment for acting unfavorably— whatever they wanted.”

“Punishment,” Steve repeats, dully.

“Behavioral modification,” Natasha says. “That’s what they called it.”

“More like ‘fear conditioning’,” Sam says. “He wouldn’t even have to keep the specific memory for that to be effective. The lack of memories would actually make the conditioning _more_ effective because it would take away his ability to mentally prepare himself for the punishment. So he doesn’t know what you’ll do to him, but he knows whatever it is terrifies him.”

“The mind can come up with all kinds of horrors specifically tuned to your psyche,” Natasha says in agreement. “You fear a boogeyman you’ve never seen because he embodies the most terrifying thing you can think of.”

“Existing in a constant state of fear like that is exhausting,” Sam says. “It depletes your reserves, keeps you on edge. It is also a powerful motivator. When you’re that wound-up you’ll do just about anything to find relief.”

“That’s how they kept him compliant,” Steve says, hardening his jaw. “And he doesn’t know anything else, only what they let him keep.”

“Maybe not,” Natasha says, turning to fully face them, leaning back against the wall beside the glass window. “There’s increasingly frequent notations as you go along in his file about the Soldier exhibiting erratic behavior. You’ll see it Steve, in the pages I brought in. There’s also a record of an incident that took place a couple of decades ago. Apparently the Soldier temporarily defected. He was ‘missing’ for nearly a week. When Hydra recaptured him they found him in Brooklyn.” She raises an eyebrow, pinning Steve with an inquisitive expression. “Any reason why that might be?”

“We… We grew up there,” Steve says, though he realizes that Natasha’s question was rhetorical. Hope begins to unfold in his chest. “Is it possible? Could he have remembered that?”

“It’s one theory,” Natasha says. “There’s a notation in his files warning against keeping him out of stasis for too long. Apparently anything longer than a few days runs the risk of the Soldier becoming ‘erratic’.”

“It’s gotta be the serum,” Sam remarks. “The human body is remarkably proficient at healing, and the serum heightens that efficiency even more. Maybe it’s allowing the Soldier’s brain to repair the damage inflicted by the machine.”

Steve thinks about the Soldier’s assistance back at the abandoned Hydra base. How he’d seemed unusually concerned about Steve’s well-being. How the way he’d touched Steve’s shoulder had exactly mimicked Bucky’s motions from so long ago. And _something_ had compelled the Soldier to rescue Steve from the Potomac.

“The serum isn’t doing much toward healing him now,” Steve says, finally allowing himself to glance into the containment room where the Soldier sits staring dully into the middle distance. He remembers the sight of the bruises, dark and copiously spread across the Soldier’s body; his careful maneuvering of his painfully swollen shoulder.

“It’s probably the only thing keeping him conscious at this point,” Sam states. “He’s too undernourished. We need to get him some food.”

“I don’t think he’s used to... eating,” Steve says quietly, drawing Sam’s attention. “He said — in the Hydra base — he implied that he _doesn’t_ _eat._ At all.”

“Hydra mostly fed him by way of an NG tube,” Natasha supplies, “while he was recovering from the effects of cryostasis. He probably wasn’t even aware when they did it. And the files say that they’d occasionally have him consume smoothies packed with vitamins and supplements. But no, he didn’t eat solid food. It takes too much time to fully digest, and they didn’t want it to interfere with the cryofreeze procedure.”

“So that means we need to take things slowly,” Sam says, face grim. “Food reintroduction is a tricky process. We should probably start with a liquid diet similar to what he’s used to. It’ll be tough to provide him with the amount of nutrition necessary to sustain a healing super-soldier body, though. Maybe Bruce can offer some suggestions.”

—

As it turns out, Bruce has a good amount of both suggestions and advice to contribute, once they fill him in on the situation.

“I’d definitely recommend a liquid diet to start,” the scientist states from the vid screen they’d used to contact him. “Sam’s right. It will be difficult to sustain his super-soldier metabolism long-term in this way, but the body is surprisingly adaptive, and his especially when it comes to the advantages he’s obviously been afforded by his serum’s enhancements. It’s likely that he’ll be able to move on to consuming solids much more quickly than the average human.”

“I’m thinking those nutrition drinks, like they give to kids who have a hard time eating,” Sam says. “Ensure or Boost — something like that. You can get them pretty easy at the grocery store, Cap.”

Bruce hums. “Supplemental nutrition shakes typically contain more than just healthy ingredients,” he says. “Which means you may be getting more sugar than any of the other ingredients. As long as you keep his dependence on them limited, he should be fine. But there’s going to be a careful balance involved in getting him the most nutritional value, and doing so as efficiently as possible. You don’t want to introduce solids too soon and then have his body reject them. That defeats the whole purpose.”

“How would we know if his body is rejecting what we’re feeding him?” Steve asks. “I know it has to be more complicated than just making sure he isn’t throwing up.”

“Absolutely,” Bruce affirms. “Things you should be on the look out for are — obviously — nausea and vomiting.  But also abdominal pain, jaundice, weakness or fatigue — he should be _regaining_ energy, not losing it — confusion — if he doesn't’ respond or takes too long to react to simple questions or directions. Also headaches or seizures. JARVIS can monitor for things such as abnormal heart rhythms, and I can take blood samples to keep an eye on his electrolytes and sugar levels.”

“Basically,” Sam says, “He’ll need to be under close surveillance, so we can make sure he’s recovering and not going downhill. JARVIS can probably—”

“No,” Steve says. “I’m going to do it. While he’s asleep, or out of my sight, JARVIS can be my backup. But I’m taking charge of this.” He stares through the glass where Bucky sits quietly in what has become only the most recent prison within seventy years’ worth of containment.  “I’m getting him out of that cell. He’s been a prisoner long enough.”

Natasha and Sam take in his stubborn expression and both seem to think better about trying to argue. At least for the moment.

“Steve,” Bruce says, drawing Steve’s attention back to the vid screen. The scientist’s expression is serious. “This is an unprecedented case. There’s never been anyone in the situation that your friend is in. For all that I’m giving you advice, I can really only offer it based upon cases with _similarities_ to — to Sergeant. Barnes’ situation. His odds of recovery are high — from what he’s experienced these past decades with Hydra, it’s obvious that he’s a fighter, that he’s strong. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful. Stay vigilant. For all that he’s strong, he’s incredibly fragile in his current state — physically _and_ mentally. Just— What I’m saying is... be careful.”

—

When Steve next enters Bucky’s cell, he’s managed to force his emotions into some modicum of control. Bucky’s eyes track his progress per usual, his expression becoming tense as he takes in the fact that Steve has, for the first time, left the door to the room both unlocked and wide open.

His gaze flickers between Steve’s approaching form and the open doorway several times, eventually settling in that empty place over Steve’s left shoulder.

“I know you don’t remember,” Steve says quietly, by way of introduction. “But your name is James Barnes.”

Bucky listens, face expressionless.

“It’s in your files,” Steve continues undaunted, hoping that information will hold more of an impact that Steve’s earlier claim of their shared history, “the ones Hydra kept about you.”

He pauses for a moment, carefully turning the words over in his mind. “I promised you that I’d try to find it — your real name — when were in that Hydra base and…” he drags in a careful breath, “I — I have. I —  You used to prefer the nickname ‘Bucky’. It’s what your sisters called you. What… I called you.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but Steve can see him absorbing the words.

“Do you understand?” he asks into the silence.

Bucky dips his head in a singular nod. Says, “Designation altered. Asset codename revised to James Buchanan, ‘Bucky’, Barnes. New designation accepted. Ready to comply.”

Steve sucks in a steady breath. “Okay,” he says, voice slightly strangled. “Good. That’s— That’s good. Can you give me an update on how you’re feeling?”

Bucky responds immediately, mechanically, “The Asset is functional.”

Steve lowers himself into a crouch. “Bucky,” he says, “you’re not—” ‘ _an asset. A_ thing’ _,_ his brain finishes. “You’re a person,” he says instead.

“The Asset is a weapon,” Bucky responds slowly, brow faintly furrowed. “It functions at its handlers’ discretion.” Then, almost pleadingly, he adds in a small voice, “It is ready to comply.”

Steve heart clenches. ‘ _It’_ Bucky had said. Not ‘ _I’._

And he realizes suddenly that altering Bucky’s perception of himself as more than a weapon — a gun to be aimed, an _asset_ — is an undertaking that he will not accomplish within the next few hours, days, or even weeks.

He swallows bitterly, and with effort, decides to move on. “I need you to be more specific about how you are feeling — physically,” he tells Bucky.

Bucky cants his head delicately, uncertain, maybe, about what Steve is asking.

“I need you to give me as much detail as you can,” Steve explains. “If your head hurts, or your stomach, or anything else. I want to know if you’re tired, or if you’re hungry. If you feel sick.”

“Pain is inconsequential unless it compromises the mission,” Bucky says, eyes beginning to dart about nervously.

“It’s not inconsequential,” Steve contradicts firmly, watching as Bucky’s fingers begin to twist anxiously at the hem of his t-shirt. “Bucky,” he says, and the former assassin’s minuscule movements still. “Can you look at me, please?”

Blue eyes trail from Steve’s collarbone, to his lips, and — finally — to his eyes. Bucky stares back at him, gaze apprehensive and uneasy. “It’s important,” Steve asserts.  “It’s important to me, how you feel. Will you tell me?”

“Affirmative,” Bucky agrees.

—

The Captain wants the Asset to look him in the face. To meet his eyes and list the body’s deficiencies. It is… difficult to look into the handler’s eyes. The Asset must fight to keep from looking away.

The command to disclose the body’s ailments, however, is not something the Asset has never had to do.

The doctors and the scientists for example, would at times have the Asset communicate these things, marking down its answers concerning its functionality into their notebooks, their computers.

_‘Soldat, report.’_

_“Right forearm integrity compromised,” the Asset states, voice strained._

_There is a muffled crack, a low cry of pain._

_“Report,” the doctor says, again._

_“Radial and ulna fractures,” the Asset responds, a cold sweat beading across its brow._

_“Yes, yes,” the doctor says, waving her hand. “I_ know _that._ I _broke them. What I want to know is how it_ feels _. Report pain levels, report mission readiness.”_

_“And stop making those awful sounds,” another doctor snaps from across the room._

_“Pain levels, moderate,” the Asset reports dutifully, swallowing down the tiny sounds of pain that had begun to escape its throat unnoticed. “Functionality compromised. Mission readiness, uncompromised.”_

_“Hmm.” The first doctor frowns, scribbling in her notebook. She glances up when she’s finished and assesses the Asset. “Let’s move on to the humerus.”_

The Captain’s expression goes unsettled, as the Asset begins to give its report — _moderate_ _shoulder_ _discomfort, multiple subcutaneous hematomas, moderate_ _cephalgia, acute fatigue_ — and the Asset worries that it has done something wrong. But the Captain had ordered it to be detailed — had said it was _important_ — and so the Asset continues until it has disclosed everything.

The last data it reports is the abdominal pain associated with its bladder being uncomfortably full.  

The Captain’s face turns an interesting shade of pink and he jolts to his feet. “Oh my— I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t think—”

He holds out a beseeching hand. “Come on. I’ll take you to the washroom right now.”

The Asset gets slowly to its feet. The Captain is motioning to the open doorway. He is not acting to restrain the Asset. He doesn’t even carry a weapon.

Uncertainty floods through its body. Is the Asset really meant to leave its cell without anything to contain it?

“C’mon, buddy,” the Captain says, noting the Asset’s hesitation. “It’s alright, it’s safe. JARVIS, is the coast clear?”

“ _All personnel traffic between here and the nearest restroom has been halted, Captain_ ,” the A.I. reports, its voice sounding from all corners of the room. “ _The way is clear_.”

The Asset’s body loses some of its tension, even as its trepidation spikes.

It understands, now. The Captain has access to an A.I. with unlimited surveillance of all surrounding areas. Which means that this is not a trap. Not a test of the Asset’s obedience to, as yet, unidentified protocols.

The Asset will be under constant supervision, with little chance of escape.

And the Captain has no need for a weapon, the Asset reminds itself. He had aptly proven, on the bridge in DC, to be a match for the Asset’s strength. His body is weapon enough.

The Asset steps into formation, a pace behind and to the Captain’s left, as protocol typically demands when being led by a handler. The Asset is to keep within its handler’s sight at all times. It is to keep its weaker side between the handler and its metal arm.

The Captain leads the Asset to the restroom, and it is finally allowed the opportunity to relieve itself. The relief is almost painful. When it is done and has cleansed its hands, it turns back to its handler, only to find the man turned, his back exposed to the Asset.

The Asset falters, tension ratcheting back up. It is protocol to never turn one’s back to the Asset. Not for more than a few moments. _Never_ when unarmed or when the Asset is not restrained or under guard.

This handler must be truly confident in his ability to contain the Asset.

A chill travels down its spine.

It doesn’t want to find out just why this new handler is so confident.

 

—

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

✪★ **Ch. 13** ★✪

 

 

After some time spent arguing, Steve is able to convince Bruce, Sam, and — with greater difficulty — Natasha — that moving Bucky from the cell to Steve’s floor of the tower is not the worst idea he’s ever had.

“He doesn’t know you,” Sam says with a frown that speaks more of worry than anger.

“He _will,”_ Steve asserts. “Just give him time.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, “he’s shown no signs of remembering who he is. All he knows is Hydra, which makes him extremely dangerous. He could very easily become violent. Or something could trigger him. What are you going to do if he attacks you again?”

“I can handle myself,” Steve says.

Natasha raises a dubious brow.

“I _can_ , _”_ Steve repeats.

“I don’t doubt that you _can_ , Steve,” Natasha states, calmly. “My doubt is about whether you _will_.”

Steve hesitates, torn between honesty and fighting for what he wants. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he finally admits with a sigh, glancing through the viewing window to where Bucky sits quietly, almost detachedly. He’d gone back into the cell with complete compliance — no hint of resistance, no challenge. Only walked silently back into his prison, lowering himself with mute obedience back onto the low mattress.

“You’re right, Nat; all he knows is Hydra. But, along with that... all he’s known is violence, and pain, and fear.” He turns back to Natasha, looking her square in the face. “It’s not that I don’t understand how dangerous he is. And I’d never allow him to hurt any one of you or any civilians. But he _hasn’t_ shown any violent tendencies since he pulled me from the river. The man I know—” he stumbles, regains his composure, “the man I _knew_ , wouldn’t. He would never hurt anyone outside of self defense or keeping those he loved safe. I don’t believe whoever he is now will either.”

“That’s a lot of faith, Steve,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“I don’t believe it’s misplaced,” Steve says seriously. “But JARVIS monitors the building. We can have him keep surveillance on my apartments. If something goes wrong, he can notify you.”

Natasha twists her mouth. “The Winter Soldier is skilled enough to escape this tower if he decides to. If he gets past you, Steve, we probably wouldn’t be able to stop him. There needs to be more defenses in place to keep him contained. The entire tower is reinforced, which will slow him down, but… Steve, you should at least keep something on you so that you can knock him out, if you need to.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest but Bruce cuts him off, deciding to add to the conversation at last.

“It’s a good idea, Steve,” the scientist states gently. “Having some precautions in place is prudent. No one is saying that you need to use them unless absolutely necessary. Aside from that, if he’s the kind of man you believe him to be, keeping him from harming innocent bystanders is probably something he’d appreciate in the event that he gets triggered.”

Steve thinks about the Hulk, how Bruce is likely speaking from experience, and swallows back his initial impulse to protest. If setting up some precautions is what it will take to get Bucky out of that cell, Steve is willing to compromise.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

—

In the end, they agree that Steve should keep one of Natasha’s Widow bracelets handy. They’ve proven effective in hindering the Soldier before — if only temporarily — and will make it easier to bring him down, if it becomes necessary.

Bruce also provides him with an auto-injector filled with the same fast-acting drug Natasha had used to knock out the Soldier before. The device is fashioned in such a way so as to prevent accidental firing, so Steve can safely carry it in his pocket.

“Armed” with these two things, it is collectively agreed that Steve may bring Bucky up to his floor.

—

Steve stands awkwardly inside the front entryway of his apartment watching Bucky’s eyes dart throughout the space, cataloguing everything within sight. The former Hydra POW holds himself tense. Uncomfortable, Steve thinks, with a super-soldier at his back.

After a lengthy stretch of silence Bucky rasps, “Perimeter check,” in a low voice.

There is no inflection within the words to indicate it as a question, but Steve has no doubt that Bucky is waiting for permission — it’s all he ever seems to do, now.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “Go ahead, Buck.”

Steve waits where he is while Bucky heads further into the apartment. If he didn’t know that Bucky was inside, Steve thinks he’d completely miss the near-silent sounds of the former assassin moving throughout the space. Only Steve’s enhanced senses allow him to pick out the quiet whispers of cloth on cloth, booted feet against carpet, the swish of doors opening and shutting.

Bucky returns only a couple of minutes later and reports, “Perimeter secure.”

“Great. Thanks, bud,” Steve says, and heads for the kitchen.

Bucky follows, a silent shadow.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Steve says, and Bucky perches on the edge of one of the barstools at the kitchen island.

“I’ve been speaking with my team,” Steve says, “We all agree that it’s a good idea to get you on a more steady diet.”

Bucky absorbs this bit of information silently, eyes attentive to the pattern on the granite countertop.

“We’ll take it slow,” Steve says. “I know you’re not used to...eating, but it’s important that you have regular meals. It will help your body to heal, get you feeling better overall.” He takes a moment to prepare his next words, thinking about what Bruce had said, about keeping an eye out for any disagreeable food-related reactions. “Also, if something you eat makes you feel...uncomfortable, or sick, you can tell me, okay? You should start feeling better, not worse. If you’re feeling sick, it means that something is wrong. That something needs to be fixed. Does that make sense? Do you understand?”

Bucky nods, once.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, great.”  He walks over to the pantry where Sam had assured him he’d stocked a veritable month’s worth of liquid meals and nutrition shakes of all varieties and flavors as soon as they’d cleared the idea with Bruce.  

Steve glances over the sheer number of options available — French Vanilla, Creamy Vanilla, Cafe Caramel, Mocha Latte, Strawberry Supreme, Creamy Milk Chocolate — and finally settles on the chocolate one, its label proclaiming its contents to be “High Quality”, a “Dairy Protein-Packed Shake!”

Bucky’d always had a sweet-tooth, and Steve had often found himself splitting his D-Bar chocolate rations during the war because of it. Anything to prompt the slightest smile, just that tiny bit of happiness in a world full of blood and death.

Now he offers the shake to Bucky, cap off, straw inserted, with instructions to drink it slowly. The former assassin complies, as always, face revealing nothing of his opinion on the flavor — assuming he has one at all.

When he’s finished, Steve disposes of the empty plastic bottle and takes Bucky on a short tour of the place — even though the Soldier had already done a perimeter check and has seen everything already.

Steve shows him the guest bedroom and Steve’s own bedroom, the accompanying bathroom, and the second one down the hall. He tells Bucky that he is welcomed to anything in the apartment. “Anything that’s mine is yours, okay Buck?”

He tells him that they will get him more clothing, a set of his own toiletries, regular shoes. He‘d returned Bucky’s boots when he’d explained to him that he was no longer going to stay in the cell. That he would be staying with Steve for the foreseeable future. But regular shoes are bound to be more comfortable than the service boots, and so Steve has resolved to get Bucky at least one pair of his own.

Bucky listens to all of this silently, following Steve like a particularly stealthy shadow — though he always remains within Steve’s peripherals.

Eventually Steve runs out of things to say, so he leads Bucky back to what will be his personal room now, rather than the guest room.  “You should get some rest, if you can,” Steve tells the haggard-looking former assassin, and Bucky perches obediently on the edge of his new bed. It’s not particularly late — maybe around 1700 hours — but Bucky looks exhausted.  

“If you need anything, anything at all, Buck, you can come get me, okay? Doesn’t matter where I am or what time it is.”

Bucky blinks mutely, in Steve’s direction, hands clasped lightly around the edge of the mattress on either side of his hips.

After another awkward moment, Steve backs out of the room, pulling the door to, but not fully closed so that Bucky doesn’t think he’s being shut in.

He takes a steadying breath as he heads back down the hallway, running a tired hand through his hair.

Tomorrow will be a long day.

There’s still the matter of getting blood samples and brain-scans to determine what is going on with Bucky’s physical health. What damage the drugs and the repetitive mind wipes had wrought on his best friend’s body and brain.

There is also the matter of finding out how much information Bucky can provide concerning Hydra and its inner workings. He’s bound to have some valuable intel. And even though Steve has absolutely no intention of allowing his best friend to undergo any kind of interrogation, it’s still a good idea to see if that information can be gently coaxed from the former POW — not least because Steve wants to hunt down and eliminate — with extreme prejudice — each and every unfortunate bastard who’d ever had anything at all to do with the Winter Soldier project.

Sam can probably help with getting that information. Natasha, too, if she’s inclined to be gentle about it. She has the most familiarity with whatever horrific experiences Bucky had suffered at the hands of Hydra. Arguably it is she who knows the best questions to ask, the right way to ask them, and what will be the most useful intel to probe for.

And then there’s the simple fact that Bucky is going to need a hell of a lot of counseling. Just the fact that he calls himself ‘it’, refers to himself as a weapon, and doesn’t understand why he’s treated like a _person_ is enough to know that Bucky has some serious issues to work through. Not to mention the obvious shell-shock he’s suffering from. They call it PTSD these days, Steve knows. He also knows that it stems from severe trauma, and that Bucky has more than enough of _that_ to last him several lifetimes over.

All of these problems are weighty and all of them are going to take large amounts of time and patience to work through. Steve is more than willing, but it’s not going to be easy. Tomorrow will be the first step down a long and difficult road.

—

The Captain lays out the Asset’s new protocols the morning after its relocation, while it chokes down swallow after swallow of the sustenance shake the handler provides for it in the kitchen.

The Captain says it will be subjected to scans of both its brain and the metal arm and to blood tests. That they will want to ask it questions when it is “ready” about prior missions, protocols and handlers.

The Captain tells the Asset that there will be no more missions. That its new objective is to “get better”.

The Asset takes in the information with trepidation. It doesn’t know what to “get better” means.

But its job is to follow orders, to do as it’s told.

The first place the Captain takes the Asset to is a laboratory, filled with science and medical equipment.

There the Asset meets the doctor, ‘Bruce’, again. The doctor is the one who performs the scans, takes the blood samples with a calm demeanor that does nothing to inspire the instinctive fear that rises regardless — an instinctive response in the Asset whenever it is brought before doctors. The Asset teeters on the razor edge of that fear, waiting for the eventuality wherein the doctor will do as all doctors do — break, injure, experiment, impair functioning.

This time, the Asset escapes without damage. But there is always the opportunity of the next time, the times after that. Sustaining damage is an inevitability. It is only a question of _when_ , not if, it will occur.

Days pass. Gradually the Asset is exposed to other members of the Captain’s team. It learns, in this way, that it is to have other handlers, though the Captain still seems to have the ultimate authority on whatever is done with the Asset.

The Asset meets Sam Wilson, “you can call me Sam”.  It meets Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, who sometimes speaks to it in Russian.

Like the Captain, the new handlers tell the Asset it is a ‘person’. To call itself ‘I’.

They say the Asset is not an ‘it’,  reiterate that the Asset’s name is James, even though the Captain calls it ‘Bucky’.

The Asset complies with its new designated callsigns. It is now a ‘he’. He calls himself ‘I’. Responds both to ‘James’, and ‘Bucky’.

They take more scans of his brain, of his arm — the weapon. They want to study him.

In between these things, he is ordered to eat and to ‘rest’. They — the Captain, the handlers, everyone the Asset seems to come into contact with — say that they want him to ‘recover’.

They don’t put him inside the frozen chamber. They don’t put him in the chair.

They want his words. They want him to _remember._  They say his brain is healing. That, with time, he will remember more.

He wonders how long they plan to wait for those memories to come.

Always, they ask questions.

Questions, and more questions. _‘What were the names of your handlers? The doctors who worked on you, what were their names? How often were you sent on missions? Who set your mission parameters? Who ordered the missions? Was this man one of your missions? This woman?_ Some things he knows, most he doesn’t. But— _It's okay if you don’t know the answer  —_ they never punish him for not knowing.

He tells them everything he can, gives them anything they want. Tears out his soul and lays it at their feet. Always they want more. Soon there will be nothing more for him to give. What will they do with him, then? Once he is of no more use?

The Captain had said, “No more missions.”

Without a mission, the Soldier has no purpose.

What will they do with him, once they realize this?

—

Time passes both too slowly and rather quickly over the next few weeks as Steve and his teammates work to put Bucky back together again.

Physically, the former assassin _is_ recovering, albeit slowly.

He’s completely healed from the injuries he’d sustained during the Helicarrier battle. He’s put on a bit more weight, though nowhere near what a healthy super-soldier should be carrying, and doesn’t quite look so much like he’s being perpetually starved. Though his cheeks are still hollow and dark circles remain like permanent bruises beneath his cobalt eyes.

His mental health, however is an entirely different matter.

While Bucky has formed the habit of referring to himself as a person, he still seems to be functioning under the belief that Steve is his primary handler. That the other members of Steve’s team are secondary handlers.

He’s unfailingly obedient to anything that sounds even remotely like a statement rather than a request, and while technically he has become more _verbal_ , responding to questions and providing vocal acknowledgement where necessary, he is actually more closed off than Steve has ever seen him.

In the Hydra base, Bucky had been expressive — even behind the mask. He’d worked to communicate with Steve, to be understood — whether he was helping to patch Steve up, or explaining about where he should shower or how he supposedly didn’t need to eat.

But then he’d been captured, for lack of a better word, and taken in by the rest of Steve’s team.

The look of resigned betrayal that had blazed from Bucky’s eyes as Natasha had restrained him, drugged and unable to even struggle, still haunts Steve to this day.

It was within those brief moments that Bucky had closed himself off.

He speaks more now than he ever did, but he says less than when he couldn’t speak at all.

Outside of accompanying him to appointments with Bruce, Natasha, or Sam — where Bucky complies with brain scans, blood tests, is questioned about details of past missions, and undergoes cursory levels of therapy — Steve sees almost nothing of Bucky, despite the fact that they share an apartment.

Steve knows that the former assassin sleeps a lot these days. Bruce says it’s because it takes so much energy to heal the significant amount of brain damage Hydra had inflicted with their mind wipes.

But even when he’s not sleeping, Bucky spends nearly all of his time in his room.

He comes out at mealtimes, so consistent Steve could set his clock by him. And, sometimes, when Steve requests, careful not to make the words sound like anything stronger than a suggestion, Bucky will stay on the couch, several cushions of space between Steve and him, while Steve watches one of the movies from his ever-growing list of recommendations.

At times such as these, Steve is not sure whether it would be better to let Bucky escape to his room. Or is it better for him to spend some time outside of the fifteen-by-fifteen box still sparsely arranged with the same impersonal furniture that had been there when it was sitting empty?

It’s not as if Bucky shows any enjoyment during the time he spends sitting stoically on the other side of the couch.

Steve doesn’t even think he sees whatever is on the screen when he stares blankly forward, silent and expressionless.

He would have thought it impossible, but sometimes — even with Bucky only feet away — Steve misses him with all the agony of the days before the crash, when the reminder that Bucky was gone, was never coming back, made it that much easier to accept the icy embrace of death as he piloted his plane straight into it.

 

—

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

  
✪ Ch. 14 ✪

 

 

“C’mon over, Buck,” Steve says, putting one last scoop of pasta onto Bucky’s plate. They’d moved on to solid foods not too long ago, and though the meals he provides are not anywhere near gourmet, they are all noted on Google to be easy on the stomach, simple for Bucky’s still-recovering digestive system to manage.

It’s lunchtime now, and Bucky has crept up to the kitchen threshold as per the usual routine this time each day.

Steve turns with the plate and a large glass of milk, goes to place them before Bucky’s hunched form, now seated at his designated seat at the island countertop.

He sets the milk down, slides it over to Bucky.

The Soldier has an odd, almost-expression on his face. His skin is pale.

Steve feels a sliver of apprehension. He doesn’t know what the faint expression means, but it doesn’t strike him as anything pleasant.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer to find out.

“Please, I’m sorry,” Bucky says suddenly, apropos of nothing. “I’m sorry. Please— What am I doing wrong?”

Steve freezes halfway through setting down the plate, alarmed at the desperation in Bucky’s voice.

“What do you mean?” Steve says, startled. “Bucky, what is it, what’s the matter?”

Bucky shakes his head, jaw clenched tight.

He takes an unsteady breath, eyes focused deliberately over Steve’s shoulder. “I am being punished…again?” he asks finally, words strained. “If you tell me— Please,” he seems to force his mouth to say, “If you could tell me what I’m doing bad, I can fix it. I can— Please. I can do better.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “Bucky, I’m not _punishing_ you. I’m not trying to—” He pauses, working out what he’s attempting to say. “Why do you think you’re being punished?”

Bucky glances away, brow furrowed, clearly agitated, and Steve mentally reviews the last few minutes, turning over his actions and words, and scrutinizing them for the cause of Bucky’s distress.

He glances down at the plate in his hand, a burgeoning suspicion rising in his mind, followed almost immediately by a bitter pang of remorse.

“Bucky,” he asks, quietly, “does it hurt to eat? Does it— does the food make you feel bad or make you sick?”

Bucky’s eyes, swirling with incredulity, meet his for the barest of instants before he looks away again. His metal hand flutters at his side, beginning to form into a fist, and then — as if he realizes how that might appear as a threat — loosening again.

“It...hurts,” he says eventually, seeming to struggle with the admission. Or maybe, the struggle stems from disbelief that Steve doesn’t already _know_ what’s wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, guilt and shame tightening his chest in equal measure. “Buck, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—” He swallows, drags in a somewhat labored breath and lets it out slowly. “You don’t have to eat it, okay? I’m sorry. You don’t— you don’t have to.”

Bucky’s up from his seat and disappearing down the hall as soon as Steve finishes the words.

—

“Why didn’t he just _tell_ me?” Steve asks Sam sometime later. The other man had dropped by not too long after Steve had sent him a text message virtually dripping with self-loathing. _‘I’m pretty sure Bucky thinks I’ve been punishing him by giving him regular meals,’_ he’d written. _‘JARVIS says he hardly keeps anything down, and Bucky basically begged me to stop ‘hurting’ him....On a scale of ‘very’ to ‘catastrophically’, how fucked-up of a caregiver am I?’_

Bucky’s in his room. Steve hasn’t seen him since the food incident.

Sam had made it over to Steve’s place with commendable speed, though Steve’s pretty sure he’s wearing mismatched socks, and his shirt is inside-out.

 _‘First of all,’_ he’d said when Steve had opened his front door, expression stern, _‘Serum or not, there’s no way you’re a mind-reader. So you can quit blaming yourself for not somehow knowing every single issue Barnes is facing right now. Let me get rid of the suspense: he’s in a shitty place. There is a literal ton of issues he’s working through right now. Secondly, there’s no way somebody who’s been brutally tortured for decades is going to suddenly decide it’s a good idea to confide in a person — a stranger, Steve — who he likely views as another jailer.’_

Steve had worked to school his expression, but either he wasn’t quick enough, or Sam saw through him anyway. Whatever the case, Sam’s expression had softened somewhat as he’d continued. _‘Sorry Steve, but that’s basically how it is for him right now. That doesn’t mean that’s how it’s always gonna be though. Give it time.’_

Now, Sam shifts a bit in his seat on the couch next to Steve. “There’s also the very likely probability that it’s too difficult for him to speak up yet,” he says. “Seems like he’s been conditioned to be silent unless addressed directly. You said, he thought he was being punished?”

Steve nods, heavily.

 _‘If you are feeling sick, it means that something is wrong,’_ he remembers telling Bucky, cringing, now, at his utter stupidity.

And Bucky had taken Steve’s thoughtlessly-ambiguous words to mean that if Bucky was hurting it was because _he’d done something wrong_. No wonder Bucky thought he was being punished. That he needed to ‘fix’ whatever imagined errors he’d been making. _‘Something needs to be fixed,’_ Steve had said. _‘Do you understand?’_

“Typically,” Sam says, dragging Steve up from the depths of miserable thoughts, “a punishment is not something that the one _being_ punished gets much of a say in. He’d endure it while it lasted and then try to avoid engendering it in the future. I’d be willing to bet that Hydra didn’t ask for Barnes’ input concerning how and when they ‘punished’ him. Which makes it understandable for him to believe he’s not _allowed_ to say anything. If he’s being punished, he probably thinks he’s earned it somehow.”

“He asked me to tell him what he’d been doing wrong,” Steve supplies. “Said he’d ‘do better’.”

Sam blows out a breath, raising his palms upward in a shrugging motion. “Well there you go. Might be better to switch around the way he’s getting food at this point. This way is clearly not working out.”

Steve glances down at his clasped hands. He’s willing to try just about anything if it’ll make Bucky more comfortable, less afraid. “What would you suggest?”

“Take out the middleman,” Sam says. “If he’s not going — or able — to tell you how he’s feeling, put him in charge of his own feeding habits. JARVIS can continue to monitor him, let us know if we need to intervene, but this will undoubtedly go a long way in helping him to restore his autonomy.”

So Steve backs off, lets Bucky know that he’s free to have any of the food in the kitchen, to eat whatever and whenever he wants.

At first, Bucky doesn’t touch anything for over forty-eight hours. Steve is close to calling the whole thing off and finding some other way to get Bucky eating. But then, late one night when he can’t sleep and is left staring blankly up at the ceiling, JARVIS’s voice filters quietly into his bedroom.

 _‘Captain Rogers,’_ the AI addresses him in a low, soothing voice, _‘I thought you would be happy to know that Sergeant Barnes has helped himself to one of the apples from the fruit bowl atop your dining room table.’_

The relief Steve feels at the small bit of information is nearly palpable. “Yes,” he says, gratefully. “Thank you JARVIS. That’s — I’m so happy to hear it.”

_‘Of course, Captain.’_

Slowly but surely, Bucky begins to regularly pilfer from the kitchen. Steve never sees him eating. Still, there are small evidences if Steve’s really looking — and he definitely is. Bucky especially seems to enjoy the green apples, but he will never take the last one — of anything — so Steve keeps the bowl always fully stocked.

Bucky never makes it to a point where he’s eating supersoldier-healthy portions, but slowly, he loses the extreme gauntness to his features that speaks of starvation.

For now, it’s enough for Steve.

—

“What the fuck are you doing in here, and where is your fucking handler?”

The Soldier turns from gazing out at the busy city via the floor-to-ceiling windows spread across one side of the tower’s communal living room.

The man addressing him is short with dark hair and a uniquely sculptured beard. The Soldier has not seen the man before. Something about him, though, scrapes unpleasantly at the his brain.

The shorter man’s dark eyes bore into the Soldier as he makes his way over to a raised section of the room separated from the rest of the space by a low wall with a granite countertop.

“I asked you a _fucking_ question,” the man snarls, and the Soldier goes tense, straightening automatically into parade rest and opening his stance — protocol both for demonstrating compliance and for keeping himself as defenseless as possible.

“The Captain was momentarily called away,” the Soldier reports, watching as the other man slams a thick glass tumbler onto the countertop, filling it with a dark, amber-colored liquid. “He left me with the directive to stay here until his return.”

He and the Captain had been on their way to the doctor’s lab, when the Captain’s phone had alerted him to a message. Whatever the report had said, the Captain had not shared with the Soldier. Looking down at it, his expression had gone sharp, and then he’d instructed the Soldier to wait.

_“Just a few minutes, Buck. I’ll be right back, okay?”_

It has been five minutes, now, since the Captain had hurriedly exited the room.

“The _Captain_ , huh?” The unidentified man says acerbically, drawing the Soldier out of his thoughts. His dark eyes bore into the Soldier, glittering with what looks like controlled fury.

The Soldier’s stomach clenches, tense with dread. His heart-rate picks up. He wishes the Captain would return. Wishes he were anywhere else.

“Well guess what, _Soldier_? This isn’t the Captain’s tower. It’s _mine_. I’m in charge of what goes on here.” The man takes another sip of his drink, dark eyes roving over the Soldier’s form.

“You don’t even know who I am, do you?” he asks, darkly.

The Soldier fights to keep his body from shaking, keeps his breathing even, controlled.

He doesn’t have to know the man’s identity to know that the man is dangerous — poised to strike at the slightest provocation — and that the question is a trap.

But the Soldier doesn’t get to avoid answering, even when he knows the answer will yield unfavorable results.

So the Soldier shakes his head in reply: he does not know this man’s identity.

The man slams his emptied glass down onto the countertop again. “I’m Tony fucking _Stark_ ,” he spits. “Sound familiar? You _murdered_ my parents.”

The Soldier takes in the information, watches the man now self-identified as Stark. He doesn’t remember the mission, but he doesn’t doubt that the man — that _Stark_ — is telling the truth. The Soldier has killed a lot of people, and the scraping sensation at the back of his brain attests to the fact that Stark is familiar to him for some reason. Now he knows why.

“Do you even _remember_ them?” Stark asks furiously, sloppily refilling his glass tumbler.

The Solder watches amber liquid spill over the sides of the glass. He doesn’t remember — which is nothing unusual — and Stark must read the answer on his face because he doesn’t wait for a verbal response.

“Of course you don’t,” Stark says. “Why would you? You’re a fucking _machine_.” He points an unsteady finger in the Soldier’s direction. “You’re a goddamned robot, doing whatever your masters tell you to do.”

Stark quiets, then, taking another sip of his drink and studying the Soldier with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll bet you still follow orders. A perfect little marionette.” He slashes a angry hand through the air. “What the fuck is Steve thinking, trying to rehabilitate you?”

The question is rhetorical. The Soldier doesn’t respond.

Stark takes an unsteady step forward, incrementally closer to the Soldier but still far across the room. “Am I right, Soldier?” he prods. “Do you still take orders like a good little assassin?”

The Soldier fights a shiver as fear slides down his spine, cold as ice.

He knows the correct answer to this question. It’s another trap, laid neatly before him

The Captain and his team are the Soldier’s new handlers, and Stark is a definite part of that team. The rest of the handlers often take Stark into account when making decisions, even when the man is not present for their discussions.

As the Captain’s partner and a member of his team, Stark is, unquestionably, the Soldier’s superior.

The Soldier opens his mouth. The words come out raspy with fear. “Ready to comply.”

Stark looks far from pleased with the Soldier’s answer.

“And what if I told you to take a flying leap off the side of this building?” he asks, words clipped and precise despite how intoxicated he obviously is. “How would you feel about that, hmm?”

_Wind — ice-cold and cutting — whips past his body. It tears at his clothes as he falls; steals the breath from his lungs; keeps his screams silent._

_His mind knows he’s dead._

_His body will catch up to the realization when it finally breaks on the rocks below — sharp and unforgiving at the bottom of the ravine._

“The Asset does not feel,” the Asset responds, voice sounding far off — distant to its ears. “It is ready to comply.”

At some point, the Asset had fallen to its knees, it realizes.

But it doesn’t remember the legs weakening, or losing control of its battle to contain its trembling.

Its vision tilts alarmingly, keeping it from maintaining focus on its surroundings, on the handler across the room. It can’t seem to force itself back to its feet. Not by itself.

If it was ordered, it knows it would comply, regardless.

“Shit,” the handler says, voice low. “Goddamned, fucking _shit_.” His voice moves as he travels across the room, but the Asset is malfunctioning and cannot seem to accurately track the handler's directionality. It waits, slumped and disjointed, for the punishment it knows it deserves for malfunctioning to such an extreme, but there are no further sounds of movement.

It doesn’t hear anything else for a long time.

—

Steve steps into the communal living room afraid of what he will find.

He’d passed by Tony not two minutes ago. Found him stalking down the hall, barely managing to walk in a steady line.

It’s been a while since they’ve spoken, and Steve’d been surprised when the genius had held up a hand in a voiceless request for Steve to halt.

Steve had, and Tony had looked at him, anger burning hot in his dark eyes. Behind the anger, though, there had been guilt, and Steve had suddenly realized that Tony was coming from the direction of the communal living room, the very place he had asked Bucky to wait for him.

Tony’d watched wordlessly as Steve made the connection and then he’d admitted, a twist of shame in his expression, “I think I fucked up, Cap.”

“What happened?” Steve asked quickly, worry rising in his gut.

“I ran into your pet Soldier back there,” Tony said, scowling. “He shouldn’t be left unsupervised. He’s not some harmless puppy you adopted. He’s a fucking _assassin_. You shouldn’t have him in an area where anyone could come across him.”

Tony was stalling and Steve didn’t want to wait for him to get to the point. He made to move past the shorter man, but Tony’d reached out a hand, lightening-fast and surprisingly coordinated, and latched onto Steve’s sleeve.

“I—I was angry,” Tony’d continued, Steve’s attention focused once more on him. “I’m _still_ fucking angry.” His expression turned grim. “I might have triggered him. Or something. He started acting funny. More machine-like than when I first started talking to him.”

“Is he violent? Did he try to hurt you?” It seemed highly unlikely considering the fact that Tony was walking away completely unscathed, but Steve asked anyway, dreading the answer.

“No,” Tony said, guilt resurfacing. “It was me. I’m pretty sure _I_ hurt _him_.”

He dropped his hand away from Steve’s sleeve. “Didn’t think that was even possible,” he’d muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring mulishly down at the carpet. “Might’ve broken...him.”

Steve hadn’t waited for the genius to say anything more.

Now he sees Bucky kneeling on the floor in front of the room’s massive windows, looking much like a doll whose strings have been cut.

“Bucky?” he says quietly, hoping to avoid startling the slumped figure.

Bucky turns his head in Steve’s direction, blue eyes vacant, face empty of expression. It is the face of the Winter Soldier, the “Asset”.

Steve feels his heart sink.

He moves closer to the Soldier’s motionless form.

“Hey, Buck,” he murmurs. “What are you feeling right now, can you tell me?”

“Functional,” comes the laconic reply.

Upon closer inspection, Steve can make out the barest tremble that travels through Bucky’s body.

“Okay,” Steve says, voice still low. “How about what you see. Can you tell me that?”

“Blue,” Bucky says immediately, eyes darting rapidly across Steve’s face before they continue past him to the rest of the room. “Sofa. Television. Countertop. G-glass tumbler.”

The stutter on the final descriptor is telling, and Steve internally curses Tony. The genius has every right to be angry over the death of his parents. To be hurting. To want justice.

But lashing out at Bucky, who is so very fragile, and who hadn’t had a _choice_ when it came to following Hydra’s orders — there’s nothing okay about that.

It’s Hydra who deserve Tony’s wrath. They deserve to be taken apart, piece by piece. To be wiped off the face of the planet.

But Bucky is _innocent_.

And Tony should know better.  
  
—

He ends up coaxing Bucky, blank-faced and docile as ever, back up to their apartment.

If past experience is any indication, it could take a while for Bucky to come back to himself, but Steve doesn’t want him to have to do so alone, so he situates Bucky in the living room, lets him sink down into the softness of the couch cushions.

He wraps Bucky’s minutely shivering body in the thick, silky throw he keeps folded over one of the sofa’s arms, and turns the television on low, tunes it to a nature documentary where the narrator speaks about the Earth’s forests in a soothingly deep tenor.

Lastly he grabs his sketchbook, and settles himself into the cushions on the opposite side of the couch from Bucky, prepared to wait as long as it takes.

Eventually, the former assassin will return to himself, Steve knows, and they will continue performing the practiced steps in what has become the repetitive song and dance of their lives.

Steve will be the Handler, Bucky, the Soldier.

And with each passing day, Steve will become less and less optimistic that the man currently sharing the other side of the couch will ever truly be _Bucky_.

—

“He seems to be doing better.”

Steve turns from where he’s been watching Bucky pull on his shirt across the expanse of the room, finished with the most recent in a long line of blood tests, medical examinations and brain scans. This time, Bruce had requested another scan of the metal arm, a request, Steve thinks, that actually stems from Tony, whom he hasn’t seen since that day in the hallway.

It is Bruce who addresses him now

Steve wonders if he could ever manage to convince himself that the scientist’s words are the truth. If maybe looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, could even temporarily convince him that Bucky is getting better, and not worse with each passing day.

“He’s eating more regularly,” Steve supplies, the only thing he can say with any amount of positivity.

Bruce watches him carefully, a modicum of sympathy in his expression. “His brain is healing, Steve,” he says gently. “Give it time.”

Steve nods mutely, because of course. What else is there to do but wait? To hope with all that he is that Bucky will eventually find his way back to him?

Even when he’d had nothing he’d had Bucky, and even when he’d believed Bucky dead he’d been able to hold onto the memory of what they’d meant to each other.

He can’t say any of this to Bruce — to anyone. It’s not something that he has ever shared with another soul apart from Bucky, though sometimes he thinks Peggy may have suspected. Certainly she had after he’d put that plane into the Arctic.

Now he’s left waiting, wanting, hoping. Steve doesn’t ask if Bucky remembers; it’s obvious that he doesn’t.

Does it make him a horrible person that the thought creeps up on him, before he roughly shoves it away, that it was easier to bear his heartache when he’d believed Bucky dead? That it is infinitely more difficult to look into those same blue eyes and see, with increasing regularity, apathy and indifference where once there was love and affection?

He tries not to think about it. Doesn’t want to know what it says about him as a person. Still, it weighs heavily on his mind. An ever-present shadow that haunts his thoughts.

—

Steve shuffles again through the files Natasha had given him almost a week ago, looking for any details he might have missed the first two times he’d gone through it.

He’d gotten the call in the midst of escorting Bucky to one of his myriad of doctor checkups, and had gone immediately to the meeting room where Natasha and agent Hill, among others, have been running a rudimentary intel center. The agents there work tirelessly, keeping tabs on what they can of the remnants of Hydra, and continually cross-referencing whatever small pieces of information Bucky is able to provide during his regularly scheduled visits with them.

Apparently, this intel has come straight from Fury — clear evidence that what’s left of Hydra is working to regroup, to scrape itself back together from the broken bits that still remain after the Helicarrier disaster.

Steve wants nothing more than to don his suit and head straight to this slowly-reviving Hydra base and destroy it. Unfortunately, he also recognizes the value in waiting.

One Hydra base is bound to get into contact with more cells, and somewhere, in one of those cells, a leader must be establishing themselves. It’s this potential leader that Steve needs to take out.

Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place. But if he strikes at the heart of the beast, he’ll be sure to kill it.

So he’ll wait, even if he doesn’t like it.

He’s not sure what makes him glance up. The dining room in which he sits glows with the golden light of a chandelier above, but beyond the room, the rest of the apartment resides in darkness and silence. Perhaps, then, it’s the weight of Bucky’s blue-eyed gaze, focused on him with steady precision from where the former assassin stands just inside the doorway.

Bucky had disappeared into his room hours ago, and this late into the night — nearing midnight now — Steve had assumed him to be asleep. Steve, himself, had been unable to find solace in slumber, and so he’d set himself at the dining room table and had spread the file Natasha had given him across its surface.

From the shadows, Bucky looks at the strewn papers, face expressionless. After a moment he raises his eyes and, in a raspy voice, asks quietly, “A mission?”

“No,” Steve says automatically, gathering the papers into a hasty pile and sliding them back behind the innocuous cover of the manila folder they’d come from. “No more missions, Buck. It’s time for you to recover.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He stares down at the bare wooden surface of the table where the contents of the file had been strewn, jaw working silently as if he’s working himself up to say something more.

Steve waits. He uses the time to surreptitiously take in Bucky’s appearance: the dark circles under his eyes, the way strands of his dark hair stick to his forehead and the sides of his face, damp with sweat.

He wonders if Bucky hasn’t just woken from a nightmare.

Steve’s sure that the he gets them. That they are a large part of why Bucky always looks so exhausted, even though Bucky’s never so much as hinted at the possibility of nightmares.

Finally, Bucky lets out an unsteady breath. “Why…” he starts, wetting his lips. “Why am I… here?”

“You’re here because we want to help you,” Steve answers, hoping that Bucky can believe him. “Because what Hydra did to you was _wrong_ , and we want you to be able to...to get better. You’re here because you’re my friend, and I’d...I’d do anything for you, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t react to the words, like he hasn’t heard them, maybe, or like they hold no meaning.

“I don’t,” Bucky says, after a period of silence, “I don’t understand.” His voice is hushed, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so lost. “What purpose do I serve? If I am not to be sent on missions, why keep me stationed here?”  

“Bucky,” Steve says, “You’re not— You’re not being _stationed_ here. This is a place for you to live, for you to be your own person. To do whatever _you_ choose to do.”

Bucky stares at him, his carefully controlled expression beginning to morph into what could possibly be incredulity. “Weapons do not have _choices_ ,” he responds, a hint of something like anger creeping into his tone. “They are not _people_. The handler tells them what they are to do. _You_ _tell_ _me_ what to do.”

Steve pushes up from his seat onto shaky legs, and Bucky tenses where he stands, still afraid of Steve even after all this time.

“I’m not your handler,” Steve says tiredly, leaning heavily onto the tabletop. He drops his gaze to where his fingers dig into the wood, and has to make a concentrated effort to keep from pressing too deep and damaging the surface. “And you’re not… You’re not a prisoner, Bucky. If you want to leave—” he stumbles, words catching in his throat. “If you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

It could be dangerous, for Bucky to be out there on his own. There are remnants of Hydra cropping up in tiny cells all over, and all of them would be ecstatic to know that the Winter Soldier survived the Helicarrier disaster so many weeks ago. Would undoubtedly clamor to get their hands on him again.

But Steve cannot bring himself to keep Bucky locked safely within Tony’s tower if he doesn’t want to be here. If he feels like he’s just as much a prisoner now as he’s been for the past seventy years.

If Bucky wants to go, Steve won’t stand in his way.  He will, though, fight that much harder to destroy what’s left of Hydra. To make sure they never discover that the Soldier has survived, that they never so much as _attempt_ to capture him again.

This Steve promises silently to the Bucky who lives today, and too, to the Bucky that Hydra stole from him nearly seventy years ago. If Bucky leaves, Steve vows, there will be nothing to keep him from fighting until all of Hydra is either dead or captured.

He doesn’t hear Bucky move. There is no response, no indication that his words have made any impact. But when he looks up, moments later, the room is empty. The place where Bucky had been standing, not minutes ago, is vacant.

He doesn’t have to ask JARVIS to know that Bucky is gone. Has again disappeared from Steve’s life — this time without even a backward glance, with no hesitation.

Something dark and desolate cuts sharply through his core. A low sound spills from between his lips, dragged up from somewhere deep inside himself.

He doesn’t register sliding to his knees.  

His face is wet with something too terrible to be labeled so simply as grief.

 

—

 

End Part One

 

 


End file.
